So Much Once Was Thine
by EOlivet
Summary: Time was something they could no longer afford to squander. Post S2, AU Christmas Special.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The characters described herein are the property of Julian Fellowes and ITV. No copyright infringement is intended._

_Timeline: Post-S2. Based on the idea that the Christmas Special would end on New Year's Eve._

_Acknowledgments: To my wonderful fellow fangirl sister for her bottomless well of enthusiasm about this story! And to my dear husband, a fellow DA fan - who came up with the initial concept when we were speculating about the Christmas Special a while ago. I loved it so much that he encouraged me to write it._

_A/N: This is only my second multi-chapter fic ever, and the first one I've ever posted in increments, so I'm a little (a lot) nervous! Thank you to this wonderful fandom for the support and inspiration!_

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><p><span>So Much Once Was Thine<span>

The letter had been vague, brief – had made the request, but offered no explanation. It had taken most of his strength to write it, propped up against pillows, a tray balanced on his lap that doubled as a writing desk, the pen shaking slightly in his hand as he wrote it out. When the nurse had heard he had a letter to compose, she'd offered to write it for him – but he'd insisted. It was too important, he'd said – too important to leave to someone else.

When the letter had been dispatched for delivery, he'd turned to the nurse. "We shall be expecting company this afternoon," he informed her. "I must dress for the occasion."

As expected, the nurse raised a dozen strenuous objections, pointing out how it would tire him so, especially after writing that letter, and suggesting putting off the visit for another day. She even fetched Dr. Clarkson to see if she could talk some sense into her patient. But he was adamant, and in the end, even the doctor was forced to concede.

He saw the nurse talking with Clarkson – no doubt trying to argue her case, but he knew Clarkson understood, even without him having to give a reason. That Crawley stubbornness was a familial trait – one that served him well now, even despite knowing he'd have to face it in equal amounts later.

Ultimately, it was out of her hands, and she had to concede. It would be a two-person task, so she and the new valet (had a name, of course he did…could never remember – nice chap…served in the war…he'd insisted on that) had set about the task of making him presentable for company.

When at last, the task was complete, he was dressed and sitting up in a chair (propped up with cushions against his back, hidden from view to any entering the room). While it had been the most activity he'd seen in a while, he did not feel as tired as he had lately. Indeed, it had been rather invigorating. He'd never known in all his years that getting dressed could have that effect.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, the door finally opened.

"Cousin Robert, I…got your letter. You said you wished to see me?"

For a moment, Robert studied the man with a critical eye. He remembered the first time Matthew had come to Downton – his posture unsure, uneasy of this new role, which had been unceremoniously thrust upon him. He remembered the first time Matthew had returned from the war – standing like a soldier, proud and a bit taller, and brimming with an outward confidence that he was sure belied whatever was happening at the front that he'd left behind. He remembered the first time Matthew stood again – his legs the only thing unsteady about him then, his confidence brimming once again with restored hope for the future.

Today, and indeed on the rare occasions he'd seen Matthew these days (when cousin Isobel managed to get him to accompany her to dinner), Matthew seemed to have shrunk into himself. He walked not with uncertainty, nor pain – Robert thankfully noticed that Matthew was learning to manage without the cane – but as if he was being crushed from within. The spark seemed to have quite gone out of him.

Of course, Robert didn't have to guess at the cause. It had been a rather trying time for the whole family this past year. Until recently, he had thought they'd been extraordinarily fortunate. Though the life of an innocent young woman and whatever future she might've had with Matthew had seemingly been the price for his family's health was not lost on him…

He suddenly realized Matthew was still standing in the doorway – that familiar uncertainty etched across his face. "Yes, do come in, Matthew," Robert replied, indicating a chair that had been placed across from him.

Matthew sat down, but appeared to be glancing around warily, his hands now rubbing together in his lap.

"I apologize for the informal nature of this meeting. I hope you know I don't generally entertain guests in my dressing room," Robert remarked, hoping he'd correctly guessed the reason for Matthew's apparent discomfort.

"It's…quite alright, of course." Matthew made a feeble attempt to smile, though it did little to hide the fact that his eyes kept flitting around the room – appearing not to want to stare at any aspect of it for too long and looking as if he'd gladly vacate the premises immediately at the first opportunity.

Robert attempted to ease the mood with a change in topic. "I hope you're quite recovered from Christmas. It was…so good to have you with us once again."

At the mention of Christmas, he could see Matthew's face soften slightly. It had been his first time at the house for Christmas in…must've been six years. The last time had been before the war – when everything had seemed so different, so hopeful... When the chance that Matthew might indeed be a permanent fixture in their Christmas traditions had still seemed within reach.

He supposed it might've been a foolish hope, but he thought that perhaps…just _perhaps_ he'd noticed Matthew and his eldest daughter exchanging a few furtive glances throughout the festivities. Nothing too obvious, of course, and never for any period of time. Mary had not exactly had the easiest of years either, what with that horrible business during Bates' trial, followed in short order by that bastard Carlisle throwing her over after the news had broken. Still, considering all that might've happened to the family, Robert thought having their name splashed in the papers somehow seemed less important, all things considered.

That had been a couple months ago, anyway – but on Christmas, he rather thought there was no denying both Mary and Matthew had been in slightly better spirits than he'd seen in either of them for a while.

"Quite so, yes. It was a…" Matthew's musings seemed to be interrupted by another thought, and he shut his mouth, swallowing noticeably and glanced away. "A lovely day. Thank you."

Robert realized his abrupt change in mood, as well as his careful choice of words. Indeed, it had been a lovely day for all of them…

That is, until the family had gone to church that evening.

After that, Matthew's mood had understandably dimmed, that spark, that light of hope that Christmas had seemed to reignite within him quite gone out, as he'd quietly told the family to go on ahead without him after services were over, and cast his eye in the direction of the cemetery.

Everyone had nodded in solidarity, of course, but Robert could not miss Mary twisting her gloved hands together – gripping her own wrists, and hurrying ahead of all of them, before slowing her pace and pretending she'd been walking with the group from the start.

He glanced at Matthew, whose thoughts seemed so very far away – and Robert's brow furrowed. They'd all known Christmas might be a difficult time for Matthew, considering. But he'd also known that he'd seen Matthew's mood improve throughout the course of the day. He'd seemed to almost enjoy spending time with the family, until going to church had reminded him of Miss Swire, and the unfortunate circumstances of her passing. The last thing Robert had wished to do was cause Matthew to backslide into what until recently had seemed to be a perpetual state of melancholy.

Leaning forward, he placed a brief, comforting hand on Matthew's arm. "How are you these days, Matthew? You know we've all..." he emphasized the last word, "been wondering how you've been getting on. We see you so infrequently, it seems."

Matthew's reaction was as automatic as it was predictable. "That's…very kind of you, cousin Robert, but I'm fine. Back on my own two feet again, as you can see," he attempted to joke. "Everything is…back to normal, as they say." His words were upbeat, but his tone was decidedly flat, and he seemed to be avoiding Robert's eyes as he spoke, which did not exactly strengthen his argument. He then quickly added, "Is this because I haven't been by to discuss the estate? I know I should've done so earlier, but I've just been…rather busy. Is that why you wanted to see me?"

At the mention of the estate, Robert couldn't help but smile. Somehow, the mention of it – the fact that Matthew had thought about the estate, was still thinking about it – seemed to be some sort of omen. "Not exactly," Robert replied. "I need to tell you something, Matthew – and I need you not to speak a word of it to anyone."

"Of course." Matthew's calm tone contradicted the questioning expression in his eyes, but he said no more.

Robert shifted his position slightly, feeling the strain of the cushions on his lower back. "I know you haven't been by the house since Christmas, but given the circumstances of our meeting…" he gesticulated around the dressing room where he'd seen Matthew trying not to look too carefully earlier, "you can probably tell I've been a bit under the weather. My daughters are all aware of this, as is Cora, of course – and your mother is, as well."

Matthew gave him a cautious nod, as if not quite sure he wanted to know where this was going. "I…don't understand…"

"The truth is…I'm dying, Matthew."

He saw Matthew lean back in his chair, eyes widening, short, sharp exhales of breath escaping his lips as if someone had knocked the wind from him. "What…?" he started, sounding helplessly lost. "But…it can't be…at, at Christmas, you looked…"

"Yes, well…appearances can be deceiving." Robert gave Matthew a significant look. "My father once said that you know when it's your time, and to be perfectly honest, I've known something hasn't been right for quite a while. I haven't felt much like myself recently." He thought of his actions…his faults and failures of the past year, and for a moment, felt a silent bond with the younger man seated across from him – both of them silently drowning in guilt and grief.

"But I…"Matthew started again, then seemed unsure how to finish. "Have you gotten a diagnosis…I mean, is this just a general feeling or…" He seemed to be trying to remain calm, but his tone had taken on a tinge of desperation.

"No, though I do wish that were the case. No, Dr. Clarkson confirmed what I'd suspected. It's my heart, I'm afraid – nothing to be done. It's…well, it's only a matter of time now."

Matthew looked as if he was searching for something – anything – to hold onto, turning over all the words in his head. Indeed, Robert could practically hear him thinking. Then something almost akin to defiance suddenly flashed in Matthew's eyes as he asserted, "Well, you can't take Dr. Clarkson's word for it, surely— you must— A, a second opinion would certainly provide a bit more…perspective."

Robert chuckled softly to himself at Matthew's determination – always thinking, always looking ahead. "I'm afraid I'm a few steps ahead of you, my good fellow. We had it confirmed by a doctor in London." He quickly clarified, "Cora knows, of course. But apart from my wife, you're the only one I've told – other than Clarkson and the nurse, obviously."

"But that was—that was only one other doctor – can't you—"

With Matthew refusing to cede his point, Robert was forced to interject. "Matthew…there's nothing to be done," he reiterated, quietly but firmly. "The doctor says my heart is so weak, it's very unlikely I'll last a fortnight." Despite having accepted his fate, it still felt slightly odd to say the words aloud, as if he was describing the fate of some other unfortunate chap as opposed to himself. But the more he was forced to repeat them, the more they began to sink in. Dr. Clarkson had assured him it was all part of the process.

"A…fortnight?" Matthew's voice was very small now, almost like a little boy. Then just as quickly, he was back to arguing, "I—I don't understand—they can't know, they can't possibly know." Then suddenly, it was as if something else occurred to him. "You said…I'm the only one you've told, apart from cousin Cora. So…nobody else…" The last two words were spoken barely above a whisper.

"No – and there's no need to alarm them, for now," Robert answered, firmly – feeling that familiar surge of protectiveness over his daughters that arose whenever he felt their well being threatened in any manner. "They know I've not been feeling well. The rest will come in time."

"But, with all due respect, – if it is a fortnight, as you claim, shouldn't they ought to—"

"I've made my decision - thank you, Matthew," Robert declared, his authority slightly diminished by the hoarse sound of his voice.

Matthew did not speak, but did not exactly look chastened either - failing to hide his still evident upset. "So…instead you tell _me_. Why?" His brow furrowed, his eyes flickering briefly with a dull recognition. "Please tell me it's nothing to do with the estate."

A ghost of a smile passed over Robert's lips, shaking his head as he spoke. "The estate? No, the estate will be in good hands – there's nothing more I can impart to you about that." He paused before adding, "But there is...another reason."

Matthew looked as if he was bracing himself for more unwanted news. Robert knew what to expect – that old Crawley stubbornness, he thought, and considered himself relatively well prepared to fight for what he was about to say. Although now that the moment was here, he seemed almost unsure of how exactly he should proceed.

He must've been silent for quite a while, for it appeared Matthew was growing impatient. "Cousin Robert – whatever it is, please just tell me."

The longer he went without speaking, the more uneasy Matthew was becoming, and Robert could feel the situation slipping out of his control. So, without thinking, he just said what was on his mind: "Regrets."

That did get Matthew's attention – his head snapping towards Robert suddenly. "What do you mean?" he asked, in a hesitantly accusatory tone.

"I don't want to leave this world with regrets," Robert commented, more calmly than he expected. Somehow voicing these thoughts felt a bit more therapeutic than perhaps it should have. "There are things I want to do before I go, things I don't want to leave unfinished." He smiled at the idea. "I want to go outside and throw the ball to Isis, and watch her run about the lawn one last time. I want to take a walk with my wife on the grounds of our home while I still have strength to do so." Shaking his head to himself, he turned his gaze towards Matthew. "But I think what I want most is to see my daughters happy."

Now he knew Matthew was shifting further in his seat, refusing to look at him – with only the notion that he couldn't exactly get up and walk out the only thing keeping him in his chair. Robert pressed on, placing a hand over one of Matthew's hands clenching at the arm of his chair. "My dear boy…" he began, his voice clouding with emotion. "I know you care deeply for my Mary. And I know she cares deeply for you."

"I…" Matthew merely offered him a wounded look, as if someone else speaking of whatever feelings he might possess for Mary was almost too painful to hear. "Cousin Robert…" he attempted to protest, but said no more.

"It's very rare that a father could ever possibly hope to see his daughter settled with a man he thinks of as less like a suitor, and more like a son…" Robert's voice broke on the last word, and at this, Matthew shook his bowed head, emotion shimmering silently in his eyes.

Robert knew there'd been some kind of falling out between Matthew and Mary, shortly after Lavinia's death, and the two of them had been avoiding each other ever since. But still, he thought…there was _something_ he'd seen between them at Christmas – something that made him believe that not all hope should be lost. That this divide that had seemed to exist between them – however wide and painful – also just might be temporary.

Despite Cora's protests to the contrary, Mary had refused any and all offers of even the most creative potential matches – and whenever she was pressed, had cheerfully insisted that someone had to look after them in their old age, and she was more than adequate to the task. In some ways, he'd wondered if she was as broken and damaged on the inside as Matthew had appeared on the outside.

He knew it might take time. But there had been a good deal of time that had passed already, and if what was happening to him, and what had almost happened to Cora and Carson and indeed what had happened to the unfortunate Miss Swire had proven, it was that time was something no one could afford to squander. Taking a deep breath, he decided to continue – no matter what else happened. It was not as if he had much to lose now.

Clasping Matthew's hand briefly, he then sat back in his chair. Matthew remained silent, despite the warring emotions on his face that said everything he could not. When at last Matthew had raised his head, Robert finally allowed himself to speak of the only reason he'd written the letter in the first place.

"You see, I'm not going to be around for much longer, Matthew. But before I go…I would so love to see your wedding."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Many thanks for all the wonderful reviews – they mean so much to me!_

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><p>At first, Matthew had convinced himself that his cousin had misspoken.<p>

"I'm…sorry?" he asked, even if he knew in his heart this was only prolonging the inevitable. Still, he needed it prolonged for as long as possible.

Robert gave him a look that seemed to recognize what he was doing, and offered a small smile of commiseration. "Matthew, you've not been in mourning for two months now. You've made no other attempt at courting. I hope you will not pretend to misunderstand my meaning."

Inwardly, Matthew smiled sadly to himself. How could he possibly explain he'd possibly be in mourning for the rest of his life for the future from which he'd been saved in the cruelest possible way, and how it had seemed destined to prevent him from the future he'd always wanted?

"But…" Matthew attempted to protest. "These things take time – surely, you understand – I can't just—" His eyes closed almost involuntarily. He couldn't bring himself to even think the word, let alone say it – it was impossible, and she…no, she wouldn't. Not after what he'd said to her, not after what he'd done…

A thoughtful look seemed to come over Robert's face as he sat back in his chair. "You've heard the story of my marriage by now, I reckon."

Matthew almost flinched, knowing the story full well – and knowing his cousin knew he was very aware of the story. "I'm afraid I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"My point, my dear fellow, is that timing will always be imperfect. However impure my motives may have been at the time for marrying Cora, the fact remains I thank God every day that I did. I cannot imagine having gone through life without her by my side – however long it took me to come to that realization."

Now Matthew was beginning to feel slightly ambushed. "Cousin Robert…our situations are quite different. With all due respect…you've no idea what's gone on between me and—" at the last moment, he hesitated, "your daughter. Indeed, I…I'm not sure it's something that can be fixed."

He blanched slightly at the words as they'd left his mouth, but it almost felt good to admit it. It was indeed something he'd barely been able to admit to himself after those brief hours at Christmas, when he'd finally allowed himself the idea of hope – however momentary… But someone needed to be realistic, and it was clearly going to fall to him.

To his relief, however, he'd not appeared to cause his cousin much offense. "Perhaps that is how you feel," Robert ventured, cautiously. "I would only ask this: if Mary felt as you do, then why did she not marry Carlisle? Why did she keep delaying until that…" He swallowed, seemingly not quite able to speak of what had been printed about his daughter in the papers. "That business came out at Bates' trial."

Matthew cringed as well at the mention of it – his eyes briefly closing at the horror that had been inflicted upon Mary and her reputation almost two long months ago. He even wondered for a fleeting moment if indeed such a thing could cause an already damaged heart to weaken further.

In the next moment, he silently rebuked himself – he'd tried to speak with her about it in passing after it had happened, but she'd brushed him off, claiming he needn't bother himself with it and she was fine, of course. And not wishing to add to her burden, he'd backed off. Of all the times he'd not done exactly as she'd asked…and that was the one time he had.

"But even if she…if we…" He spoke the last word almost tentatively. It had been so long since he'd even considered the idea that there could be a "we" or an "us" with… Shaking his head of the memory, he continued. "These things take time – it's simply not possible, not in less than a fortnight…"

For some reason, this seemed to be particularly amusing to Robert, who offered a conspiratorial smile. "Matthew – as you'll soon discover – you don't get to be the Earl of Grantham without knowing how to pull a few strings." His tone seemed to sober then as he added, "If there is...something to arrange, I will take care of it – you can be certain of that."

Matthew only offered a small nod in return – not sure whether he was supposed to be grateful that his cousin could arrange this hypothetical wedding on such short notice. In truth, it actually made the prospect that much more daunting. Not only would he be forced to come to an understanding with Mary, after so many months of hurt and silence, but then – possibly before their wounds had had a chance to fully heal – ask her to take him almost immediately afterwards.

He could see several uncomfortable similarities to when he'd arrived at Downton more than seven years ago, when his cousins had attempted to arrange their lives for them. Mary had balked at it back then – he could only imagine what she'd do now.

But things had changed a great deal since then – and circumstances were much different for both of them. For all of them, he thought, glancing at the man in the chair across from him, who still sat so proud and tall, as if he truly would be around for another 30 years. The fact that he wouldn't was still almost incomprehensible…

"If I…" Matthew took a deep breath, holding up his hand already to temper his words, "if I…do this, I must ask your leave on one thing."

"What is it?" He could see Robert trying to hide any signs of enthusiasm, though it was impossible to quash the hope that Matthew saw flicker through the man's face.

Matthew shook his head slightly, trying to dissuade his cousin's optimism, given what he was about to say. "You're not going to like it…"

At this, Robert chuckled briefly. "My dear chap, I assure you whatever bad news you think you're about to impart, I think it's safe to say I've heard far worse in the past week."

Offering a half-smile of acknowledgment, Matthew drew in a breath. "Mary…" her name fell trembling from his lips, "must be told of your…diagnosis."

The man across from him now appeared to lean back even further in his chair – his expression unreadable. Matthew watched his cousin for any sign that might indicate his mood, but could find none. Indeed, it almost seemed as if Robert was…considering his words.

Buoyed by at least the appearance of encouragement, Matthew continued to plead his case: "Cousin Robert…I…cannot pretend this is going to be easy – nor do I give you any guarantee of success. But because this is not on my terms, she must be made aware of the…reason for the timing. She will not understand why I am—" again, the word stuck in his throat, "talking of this, when we've barely said a word to each other in eight months." Matthew realized he was getting a bit worked up, and took a breath to calm himself. "I won't keep anything from her," he finished, softly. "I…I can't."

Robert was silent for another moment and then, to Matthew's astonishment, the man's face relaxed into what seemed to be an expression of…admiration. He leaned forward in his chair, clapping his hand briefly upon Matthew's knee. "You've always been your own man, Matthew. I've always liked that about you." Leaning back in his chair, he continued. "Very well…you may share what I've told you with Mary. But it is very important you make no mention of it to anyone else – not her sisters, not your mother…certainly not my mother," he added, with a wry chuckle before turning serious once more: "I would ask that you leave that to me."

Now Matthew was puzzled. "You…do not wish to tell her yourself? I am quite certain she'd rather hear it from you…" he trailed off, wondering why on earth he was _volunteering_ to burden her with yet another secret. All he knew was he never wanted to catch her with a lie, not even one of omission. No matter how painful the truth might be, this was better. Indeed, that was something they'd all learned this past year.

Not surprisingly, Robert shook his head. "No, I think not. If I tell her, then send her to you, she's going to wonder at the timing."

"She's going to wonder about that anyway."

"Matthew, I'd just as soon not tell her at all, but if you are convinced she must know, then it must fall to you. She can come to me afterwards, if she wishes to speak to me." There was an air of finality to the man's tone – even in his weakened condition, he still commanded that measure of authority.

It was an impossible situation, but unfortunately Matthew could see no way out of it. His cousin was right – Mary would never consider accepting a proposal she considered to be a direct order from her father. His mind wandered back to when his own father was ill, how his mother had sat with him and tried to explain what was going to happen. But apparently that was not how things were done at the big house.

Reluctantly, Matthew dipped his head, indicating that the terms were acceptable: "Of course," he replied, solemnly, and the two men nodded in uneasy understanding.

Clearing his throat, Robert lightly tapped the arms of his chair. "Well, I certainly don't wish to detain you any further. I'm sure you have more…important matters at hand."

Matthew managed a tight smile. "Quite so," he replied, rising from his own chair. "Good day, cousin Robert."

He was about to leave the room when the other man's voice stopped him. "Matthew—" Slightly startled, Matthew turned round, expectantly. "Will we…be expecting you…and your mother for dinner this evening?"

It was an innocent enough question, but both men knew exactly what was implied. Time had become the thing they both valued and feared the most.

"I'll send word this afternoon," Matthew replied, shortly - turning to leave again before Robert suddenly clasped his hand briefly – looking up at him, eyes shining in what appeared to be gratitude.

"Thank you," he said, earnestly. "Please believe me when I say I know this is not how you wished to have things settled with Mary. But I appreciate the attempt more than you know, my dear boy – it means—" his voice broke slightly, "it means everything to me."

Robert dropped Matthew's hand then, and Matthew looked at his cousin – wanting to say something more, but not quite sure what. Only two words came to mind, and he swallowed, trying to hold back his emotion. "Be well," he managed, before hastily exiting the room – not wishing to be confined in that small, darkened space any longer.

He passed Carson on his way out – leaving word with the butler that he needed to speak to Lady Mary, and would she kindly stop by Crawley House whenever she returned from the village.

As he put on his coat and hat, and waited for the car to be brought round (using that more as a crutch instead of the cane these days), he silently wondered at how he felt as if he was being offered the world and having it taken away all at once. Matthew's world already had the unfortunate habit of collapsing around Mary – and he only prayed he could hold it up long enough for them to at least begin to repair all the damage he'd done.

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><p>Matthew was not good at proposals.<p>

He had come to this realization while pacing around the sitting room, staring at his pocket watch and wondering exactly what Mary could be doing in the village that would take this amount of time. Granted, it had only been an hour, but it felt like far longer.

The first time he'd proposed to Mary was unplanned, hasty – he only knew after he kissed her, after he thought she might return his feelings that he never wanted to kiss another woman for as long as he lived. As much as he'd tried to deny it, that feeling had never really gone away – even if he'd buried it rather effectively for his second proposal.

Still, both women had been shocked, almost taken aback – as if it was the last thing either had ever expected. These initial reactions had led him to conclude that he really must be rather bad at it. Of course, Mary's surprise had quickly faded into uncertainty, and…well, Lavinia's tearful grin that threatened to break her face in two had haunted his dreams for many months.

But the third time…the second time, the one that counted was supposed to be different. In the rare moments he'd allowed himself to envision it, it had been after a longer period of time…when things were a bit less strained between them. Of course, he knew he'd only made it more difficult for himself with this added complication of her father's condition. Yet, Matthew would not have even considered approaching Mary without her knowing. She was owed more than that in his eyes. Far more.

As he reached the mantle once again, he realized with a start that he didn't even have a ring for her – but as he hurried out of the room to dash up the stairs, he heard Moseley opening the door.

Matthew was standing in the middle of the corridor with his mouth half-open – similar to his first ever meeting with Mary. He hoped that was not a sign of some sort. Especially if the rapid racing of his heart was any indication.

For a moment, she stared at him, appearing slightly confused. "Carson said you wanted to see me?" she asked.

He blinked, trying to clear his head and retain his focus. "Yes, I did." He paused then, attempting to think of something else to say, before suddenly blurting out, "Would you…like to go for a walk?" Indeed, he wasn't entirely sure he could do this if forced to sit still.

"I…just came from the village," Mary reminded him, now casting a slightly wary glance at him, as if this was information he should already have known.

"Right. Of course."

Then suddenly she looked thoughtful. "But…I suppose one can never have too much fresh air." Mary's smile seemed to hold traces of anxiety, and he wondered when they'd been reduced to standing around, stammering about the weather.

"Oh. Very good, well - I'll just get my—" he cut off his useless narration, grabbing his coat from where he'd flung it on the desk. Thankfully, Moseley had been polishing silver when Matthew had returned, and had not gotten the chance to take care of it yet.

They stepped outside together – and he allowed her to set the pace for their journey. Silence in her presence had always been uncomfortable, but it had seemed to become even worse the longer their separation had lasted.

"I hope we didn't wear you out at Christmas," Mary remarked, idly. "When we got back from services, Carson said you'd already gone home." She paused a moment, before adding, "I certainly know how tiring all the festivities can be."

Matthew winced at her words, remembering. The worst part of it was he hadn't known exactly why he'd wanted to visit Lavinia's grave – it had just seemed like it was something he _should _do. He'd not felt the guilt of her death the entire day, and that…had made him feel guiltier than anything.

"No, I—I shouldn't have run off. That was rather rude of me, I apologize."

She let out a brief, understanding laugh, as she replied, "Oh, Matthew – I hardly think you need to apologize."

"On the contrary…I'm fairly certain that I do."

Their eyes met then, and she offered him a sympathetic smile. "Well, how lucky it is that this is the season of charity and forgiveness."

"I'm not sure I deserve your forgiveness," he responded. "But I might soon be in need of your charity…"

Glancing over at her, he was acutely aware of how very…lonely his life had felt for the better part of the year. She had been a part of his life for so very long, and he no longer had the distraction of the war to obscure the fact that she wasn't in it anymore.

The few times he'd allowed himself to look at her…really, properly look at her, all he'd been able to see was his guilt, his shame, his…weakness. But today…somehow, all he could think was how empty his life had been without her in it.

"Speaking of charity," she mused, interrupting his thoughts. "What did Papa need you for today?"

Matthew whipped his head around to look at her, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. "What—what do you mean?"

"Carson mentioned you'd been in to see Papa." Apparently, something in his tone must've given her pause, for she turned, hesitantly. "Why? Is anything the matter?" He was truly at a loss for what to say next, when she continued, lightly: "I know Papa very seldom works over the Christmas holiday, so it must have been something rather important if he required your assistance."

He tried not to react too strongly to her unknowing words, as he quickly replied, "Actually, he just…wanted to talk to me."

"Oh?" she wondered, her eyebrows raising in curiosity – but said nothing further.

"We spoke about…regrets."

Now she stopped – her eyes fixing on his in bewildered surprise. He stared at her, and suddenly it all became so very clear. "Your father believes it is very important not to go through…life with regrets. It is something I have also been considering a very great deal lately. Mary, I don't want to—" He suddenly darted in front of her on the road – facing her, so he could look directly at her as he spoke. "I _can'_t go another day without you knowing how very, very sorry I am. For all of it. It was unfair – you were not to blame, you were never to blame."

"No, Matthew…" she protested, weakly. "Please – there's no need to speak of it now."

"I know I've no right to ask your forgiveness, but I need it, Mary – I need…" Gently, he took her hands in his own. The world melted away as he stared at her – in that moment, there was nothing simpler than what was in his heart. "I need…_you_."

Mary grasped his hands, still looking somewhat uncertain. "Of course you have my forgiveness. Though there is nothing to forgive – especially in times of loss."

He smiled shakily in response, already feeling the emotion of the moment overtaking him. "Mary, there is something I must say to you," he began. "But before I do, I need you to know…my feelings for you have never altered, and they never will. Please remember that, I beg of you." Giving her hands a soft squeeze, he swallowed heavily, his eyes shining with all that he felt for her.

She looked uneasy now…almost frightened, and appeared to shrink slightly away from him. "Matthew, what is it? Are you leaving? Are you ill? Whatever it is, please just tell me…"

"No, I'm not—that's not what I— oh— will you marry me?"

Indeed, it seemed Matthew was destined never to be any good at proposals. Not even when it came to the one that counted.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I'm so incredibly thrilled by the response to this story – I cannot tell you just how much every review means to me! Thank you so much!_

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><p>The moment that those words – words she never thought she'd ever hear again, especially not from him – had left his lips, she'd been transported back three years ago.<p>

She'd been seated at her dressing table, her mind wandering a bit – getting ready for this concert was such a dull business – and her heart was still aching for London and the distractions of society. She thought she had been so very anxious to start a new life when her old one had been brought crashing back down upon her head.

As a result, there was nothing much that surprised her anymore. Her life had been far too full of upheaval to truly be shocked by anything. Nothing would compare to letting go of the life she'd always wanted, and settling for "a life." After that, she'd learned how to put on a brave face and deal with whatever "a life" had dealt her – Matthew's injury, Lavinia's unfortunate passing and its myriad effects, the very public revealing of her own scandal and…all that had come afterwards.

But this…this was indeed the very last thing she ever expected.

"…What?" she managed at last, dropping his hands as if burnt by them.

"I…" he began, looking at her or…near her, at least. He looked flustered and frustrated and so vulnerable, but over _her_ – it was…it was quite unthinkable…. "Wait, don't answer yet!" he added, suddenly. "There—there's more."

"Dear me…" she breathed, still not believing a word of what she'd just heard – let alone that there was in fact _more_.

Matthew took her hands again, standing on the side of the path leading to the road that led to the village. It was such an awkward place for…this – and if it was some sort of…plan (she could barely bring herself to consider the thought) why had they not simply stayed in the sitting room?

Her thoughts were interrupted by another squeeze of her hands. "If you were to…agree to this…" He appeared to be swallowing nervously. "It would need to happen…soon."

"Soon?" It seemed all she could do now was utter monosyllabic words. Which was a feat in and of itself, she decided, when her head had not ceased spinning since…

Now he appeared to cast his eyes towards the ground as he spoke, though he'd not let go of her hands. "Less than a month," he practically whispered, before raising his head, meeting her eyes again. "A fortnight, at most."

She was unable to suppress a gasp – realizing after years of dealing with whatever life had thrown at her, she'd now been shocked almost into speechlessness twice in the span of several minutes.

"Matthew…" she murmured, finally finding her tongue. "I don't understand…why such urgency?" Indeed, she was all but certain now that there had to be more to this than he was letting on. There was a difference between being impulsive and being…well, rash and whatever she knew (or thought she knew) of Matthew, he was not one to make such a rash decision as getting married in less than a fortnight.

Her words must have hit on the truth, or something close to it, for he started glancing furtively around the path. "Is there…is there a place we can…rest for a bit – I'm sorry, I— I think it might be best…"

Mary suddenly realized he was without his cane, and that protective instinct she'd developed during the time he was injured immediately kicked back in with full force. "Of course," she replied, grateful for the distraction. She glanced up the path – they'd not gotten far from Crawley House yet. "Perhaps we should head back?" Before he could argue, she'd already turned round and had begun making her way up the path – amazed she'd actually been able to string two sentences together.

Again, they lapsed into silence, and while Mary wasn't entirely certain that anything could top the awkwardness of Matthew's first proposal, she was seriously beginning to rethink that assessment. But none of that mattered now – all that was important was getting him back into the house, where he could sit—

"Actually, I'd prefer to stay outside, if that'd be alright," he asserted, as she started towards the walkway. She turned around to see him by the wall near the gate. "I see Mother has just arrived home, and I…think it might be best to leave her be…at least for now."

Silently, he reached for Mary's hand, which she offered without hesitation (though with a great deal of trepidation) and brought her around to the wall, so _she_ was the one almost leaning against it. Her instinct was to protest, but something about the way he held her hand, and the intensity she saw in his gaze told her not to argue – at least for the moment.

He was looking at her with something akin to desperation in his eyes. "Mary…" he paused, seeming increasingly uncomfortable. "I don't know how to say this…I wish so much that it were not the case, but…I'm afraid your father is the reason for the timing of all this."

"Papa?" Mary repeated, stunned – her head back to spinning all over again. It made no sense. Her father had been so tired since Christmas – the idea of a wedding in so short a time would surely add to his fatigue. "Why? Is he leaving?" she asked – wondering if her father had some sort of urgent business in London that needed attending…though why couldn't they simply wait until he was finished….

At this, Matthew swallowed hard, and an uncomfortable feeling began to settle over her. She stared at him, unblinking – knowing that look…not certain if she would ever forget it after all that had happened this year. Her breath drew in sharply, and she closed her eyes for a moment – sending up a silent prayer that it was anything but what he was surely about to tell her, trying to prevent him from speaking through force of sheer will.

"My darling, he's very sick. And…and there's nothing that can be done." His voice broke, as he admitted not in so many words what she had known in her heart just by looking at him.

Mary didn't move. The only concession she allowed to the fact that she was even processing this news at all was the slightest drop of her lower lip.

"I am just…so sorry. I cannot even begin to tell you how much," he continued, when she said nothing. "Mary, he wanted to protect you from this – he didn't want you to know, but I…I couldn't ask you to accept me now without knowing why. He only wants the chance to see you happy – if…if you would be happy."

She hadn't realized she was leaning further and further away from him until she felt the wall against her back. "So….this was Papa's idea?" she wondered, quietly. A slight surge of resentment bubbled up within her at the notion that her family still appeared incapable of allowing her to run her own life, even when she was almost 30,

Bowing his head, Matthew looked suitably chastened. "Yes…due to the timing, yes it was." But then his eyes found hers, as he offered her a small smile and a brief squeeze of her hands. "You must know that I only dared to hope for the chance to ask you again. I just…never thought it would be this soon."

Mary briefly thought of the past two months, but could not speak of it now. "Quite so. It is…rather soon," she agreed – forming the words as if fighting through a haze. Then suddenly something broke through. "Sybil," she exclaimed, glancing at him. "Has someone sent a telegram? She'll want to rush home, I'm sure." Her eyes filled suddenly at the thought of her youngest sister in Ireland, so far away from all that was happening here. How much Sybil was seeing of the world, and yet how very cut off she seemed from it all of a sudden.

Matthew let out a heavy sigh. "Your father wants to keep it quiet."

"What do you mean…keep it quiet?" She blinked, unable to believe she'd understood him properly.

"Only your mother and the two of us know…anything. He doesn't want to alarm anyone else. That's why I couldn't tell you with Mother and Moseley wandering about the house – it's…"

"A secret," she finished, with the trace of an ironic smile.

He gave her a look that rather seemed as if his heart was breaking for her. "My dear, I am so very sorry," he reiterated, sadly. "But you…you won't have to go through it alone this time. We…" He seemed to be tentatively testing the word. "We can bear it together…if you'll let me."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back any tears threatening to fall. "So, I'm supposed to plan my wedding while my father is…" Shaking her head, she declared, "It's unthinkable. It's downright absurd. How can we do this, Matthew? It isn't fair to anyone—"

"Mary…" He gazed at her – grasping her hands even tighter. "Do you mean that…there _will_ be a wedding to plan?" He looked so hopeful, so expectant, and her heart felt lighter as she stared sweetly at him – and felt the burden of five long years of heartbreak and disappointment slowly, slowly dissipating.

She laughed gently – almost in relief. After all this time, how could he still not know? "Of course there will!" she replied, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Her eyes shimmered with all that was in her heart. "Why ever would there not be?" Then she realized what he wanted – what he needed from her, and her expression softened further. For once, her gift for monosyllabic words in his presence that day was actually a blessing.

"Yes."

Almost as soon as the word had left her lips, he'd brought her hands to his own, kissing them softly. Then he leaned in and kissed her – just grazing her mouth, though it still communicated the sentiment rather effectively. There would be plenty of time for that later, she thought. Plenty of time and yet…very little time at all.

Her eyes had drifted shut at his kiss, and she suddenly found herself enveloped in his arms. He was holding her to him, and her arms wrapped around his back almost of their own volition. She buried her cheek against his shoulder, not knowing whether to feel more joy or sorrow. Her knees felt so weak, she was leaning on him - relying on him to hold her up now, and she marveled at the reversal.

She was going to marry Matthew and lose her father shortly thereafter.

Truthfully, she wasn't entirely certain what had been the bigger shock that day.

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><p>Mary was good at keeping secrets, of course – and now she had two to keep.<p>

The second was a welcome distraction – it helped take her mind off the first in a most pleasant way. Smiling secretly to herself when Anna commented that her cheeks looked slightly flushed, deflecting the observation with a bored remark about the heat in the room. The reality of her other secret intruded upon her when she and Mama and Edith walked down the stairs to dinner. Had her mother always looked this drawn and weary, or had she only noticed now because she knew why?

She met Matthew's eyes as she entered the drawing room – and for a moment, it was the loveliest thing in the world to have a secret. Mary made her way over to him as unobtrusively as she could. It might've raised a few more eyebrows these days – given how little time he'd spent at the house lately – but luckily everyone else seemed engaged in their own conversation.

"You've not told your mother," Mary remarked – noting the animated discussion cousin Isobel was currently having with Granny.

He glanced over at her, with the slightest bit of a smile. "Of course not. We agreed, didn't we? I take it you've not said anything."

She offered him a raise of her eyebrow. Then she surveyed the room. "Best to wait until after dinner is over, I think," she suggested, as casually as she could – hoping she'd not have to explain how an engagement announced during dinner did not exactly engender happy memories for either of them.

Nodding, he seemed to agree – though whether or not it was for the same reasons, she couldn't say. It was, she thought drily, their first joint decision about the future of the estate - at once both terribly exciting and horribly sad.

"You know your father is going to press me for an answer before we join you," he reminded her.

Her smile faded – her eyes now lighting upon Papa seated in a chair – looking for all the world like the picture of health. "I'm sure you'll think of something," she murmured, distractedly, as the family started making their way towards the dining room. Her father offered her mother his arm, as if he was merely being a gentleman – though Mary suspected chivalry had nothing to do with it.

Dinner was nonetheless difficult. She was torn between gazing at Matthew and staring anxiously at Papa, wondering at every slight cough, every hitch of breath, poring over every trivial remark about the estate in her mind, trying to file it away for…later. Though how much later, she couldn't possibly say. Every so often, she would see Papa's eyes anxiously shift to Matthew – and Mary began to question the wisdom of their decision. But it was too late to change it now.

After dinner, the time in the drawing room with her mother and grandmother, cousin Isobel and Edith seemed almost intolerable, though she infinitely preferred it to dealing with her father, as Matthew was forced to do at this moment. She prayed Papa would leave it to them (or at least to Matthew) to announce. Though if her father was the one who'd initiated the idea for the engagement in the first place, perhaps – she thought, with some irritation - he felt some ownership of it, as well.

She hadn't noticed they'd both entered the drawing room quietly as she was thinking this over, until Matthew took a seat beside her. Glancing over at Papa, who was slowly making his way to his chair (where she now noticed several strategically placed cushions) – all she could think of was it was _their_ news and they should be the ones to decide how and with whom and in what manner it should be announced.

Once everyone was seated, she suddenly rose to her feet. "Matthew and I have something we'd like to share," she declared, as the room suddenly lapsed into silence at her sudden outburst.

Then she seated herself back down, as if nothing had ever happened, and waited for Matthew, basking momentarily in how very good it felt to reveal a secret on her own terms.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I sincerely appreciate every single review – many thanks to all who've left feedback!_

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><p>Matthew could feel eight pairs of eyes on him (including Carson, who hadn't yet left with the drink tray). There was cousin Robert's hopefully anxious stare, cousin Cora's eyes widening in shock, cousin Edith's bemused expression, his own mother's look of surprise and slight confusion, the venerable cousin Violet's smug look, Carson's curious glance in his direction and the warm, reassuring eyes of his darling Mary.<p>

"Well, I…" he began, clearing his throat slightly. "I won't keep you in suspense." Despite his statement, he drew in a breath – giving this announcement all due respect. "Mary and I are engaged."

He heard scattered gasps, saw several smiles, and felt for Mary's hand, clasping it as they sat together on the settee.

Cora was the first to break the silence. "Oh, my darling!" she exclaimed, softly – her tear-filled eyes fixed on Mary, her smile so wide, it could light up the entire downstairs.

As others were nodding and murmuring their agreement, his stare fell upon Robert - which painfully reminded him indeed that was not the only news he needed to share. "And we…we wish to be married as soon as possible," Matthew went on, trying to sound more confident than he felt about anything other than the fact that he was marrying Mary. "Within a fortnight, at most," he finished. Again, he glanced significantly at Robert, who gave him a grateful smile.

That brought all conversation in the room to a halt once again – and seven pairs of eyes fixed squarely back upon him (upon _them_ – for they were now looking at Mary, as well).

"But…why so soon?" his mother wanted to know – shooting him a concerned look. He very seldom kept anything from her, and felt a slight pang of guilt that he could not have told her privately.

While he was trying to figure out exactly how to respond, he heard Mary remark, "Given our…recent history, I don't believe either of us desire a long engagement."

At this, Matthew dipped his head in acknowledgment – thinking guiltily of Lavinia not for the first time that evening. Thankfully, Mary's gentle voice brought him back to the reality of the situation: "Besides, I think everyone would agree we have waited long enough as it is." Then she looked at him, and smiled – and he remembered this was his future.

"Quite right," Robert put in, lightly - clearly trying to voice his support without seeming too obvious. Matthew saw Mary glance at her father as he spoke – her expression unreadable.

The last person Matthew would have expected to have an opinion on the matter was Edith, but she said her piece all the same: "I don't understand…" He could see Mary now shooting her sister a withering look, but Edith's tone appeared to be one of disbelief, not malice: "Why would you not wait to be married in church? I wouldn't think you'd be so non-traditional."

"Because we'd prefer to be married here," Mary replied, with what appeared to be a look of determination. "Who wouldn't dream of being married in her childhood home? Don't you agree, Papa?" Her flat affect took on a decidedly sharper edge as she glanced at her father. Had Matthew not known better, he might've thought her angry – but it was clear to see she was hurting. Again, he'd begun to question his own insistence that she not be kept in the dark.

Whether Robert could detect the bitterness in her voice, Matthew couldn't say, for the man simply smiled back at his daughter. "Of course. We shall arrange it at once. Perhaps sometime next week if we're all agreeable?"

Cora voiced her agreement almost immediately. "Yes, that will give us at least some time to get Sybil home. I'm sure she wouldn't want to miss your wedding," she said, tearfully, though she'd not stopped smiling.

Matthew glanced at Mary, who gave him a little smile of what he could only assume was her support for the idea. It would give him and Mary some time, and a chance to speak further, to make sure that everything was well and truly healed between them (in between wedding preparations, of course).

"Well, why wait that long?"

All eyes now turned to The Dowager Countess, who'd suddenly made her presence within the conversation known.

His mother seemed to be the only one willing to take the other woman on. "What's wrong with letting them wait until next week? Surely, we'll want the extra time to get it all arranged. Unless _you're_ volunteering to help with the preparations?" she added, in a tone that was not quite sarcastic, but not quite sincere. Matthew noted with some amusement that his mother had already volunteered herself to assist.

"I suppose that would rather depend on your goal," Violet replied, with a pointed look at his mother, before addressing the rest of the room. "If it is more important to allow for…_preparations_—" she lingered derisively over the word. "Then by all means, wait a week. But if your aim is to amass the largest number of guests…the solution is obvious."

Only Cora seemed to understand to what Violet was referring, for she suddenly drew in a breath. "Surely, you're not thinking of—"

"Well, why not?" Violet barked at her daughter-in-law. "All the family will be gathered here. Even Sybil is due to return from that godforsaken place, is she not?"

Now Robert spoke up – sounding thoughtful. "A New Year's Eve wedding, Mama. You realize that's rather unorthodox." He did not however appear to be rejecting the idea out of hand.

"Unorthodox it may be, it's also quite practical. They wish to be married as soon as possible. We have guests arriving as soon as possible. Really, must I think of everything?" Violet wondered, leaning heavily on her cane, somehow looking like a cross between a sage and some kind of tribal elder.

"But that's in three days!" Mary exclaimed, sounding panicked for the first time.

Matthew also felt the urge to weigh in on the subject: "Cousin Violet…with all due respect, that does seem an awfully short time to have everything arranged…"

"…Especially for those of us who will be arranging it," his mother clearly felt compelled to add.

"Actually, there'd be very little arranging to do – the house is already decorated for Christmas, after all…" Cora informed his mother, looking thoughtful – as if she was already starting to warm to the idea.

"Precisely." Violet chortled, affectionately, as she turned her attention to Matthew and Mary. "I'd think fewer days of waiting would be a blessing to those who wish to be married as soon as possible."

"Robert, are you quite certain you can have everything sorted by then?" Cora asked – her light tone betraying a concerned look that Matthew was sure had gone unnoticed by everyone except himself and Mary.

"Yes, Papa?" Mary wanted to know – her eyes once again traveling to her father. "It is such a short time, and we know you've been rather…occupied lately." Though her words appeared perfectly civil, her expression appeared to flash a challenge.

But of course, Robert only seemed to look at Mary with nothing but affection. "I shall never be too occupied to help arrange anything for my daughter's wedding."

"I do hope you feel the same way when I get married, Papa," Edith remarked – almost sounding like a little girl.

Matthew did not miss the slight faltering of Mary's expression as she gazed at her sister, and could see Mary her pressing her lips together, trying to maintain her composure. He surreptitiously squeezed her hand even tighter, drawing her glance back to his – willing them both to draw strength from one another.

"Of course he will!" Cora replied, almost immediately and with overwhelming cheeriness. Under different circumstances, it might've aroused suspicion – but indeed, Cora had been emotional since the announcement, so her behavior did not exactly seem unusual.

Then Cora cleared her throat, and took a breath. "So…I was thinking the hall makes the most sense. Mrs. Hughes will at least be familiar with the layout, since she did the seating arrangements for that benefit concert during the war." Her smile seemed extra bright, and in that moment, Matthew realized how similar Mary and her mother looked in what he now recognized had been difficult situations.

"Oh, that does sound lovely!" his mother agreed, and with a nod, the two women had seemingly formed an impromptu wedding planning committee, right there in the drawing room.

Next to him, he could see Mary visibly bristling – and he could not bring himself to find fault with it. The timing of her wedding - as well as the location, and even the decorations – had seemingly been forced upon her, and it now seemed as if she was being excluded from the few remaining matters about which she could at least provide some input.

Matthew turned to her on the settee, with a questioning stare – trying to figure exactly what her opinions were on the subject. The look she gave him indicated he need not have worried. Mary Crawley was certainly not one to back down when she had an opinion to share, especially among her family.

"If I may be so bold," she started, with a touch of mocking to her tone, "_I_ would like to get married in the library." He did not miss the emphasis she'd placed on the first word – and hoped it was not lost on her family either. "We also staged a concert there, so I'm sure Mrs. Hughes would be equally familiar with the seating arrangements."

He had always been fond of that room, and he had to admit the thought of getting married at the site of that informal, interrupted concert suited him more than the site of that elaborately staged one, as well as…another interrupted event that still brought up far too many mixed emotions. "I'd like that very much, as well," he chimed in, offering his unsolicited opinion in the hopes that it might lend Mary's more credence.

"The library?" The Dowager Countess looked as if he and Mary had just suggested they wanted to get married in the kitchen. "That's quite unusual." Then, she gave an equally nonplussed shrug. "But given that's rather the theme of this wedding, I suppose it makes perfect sense."

"Thank you, Mama. You know we wouldn't dream of doing this without your blessing," Robert commented, drily. Then he let out a long sigh. "Well, all of this talk of wedding planning has tired me out considerably." Matthew saw Robert attempting to slowly rise from his chair, and glanced over at Mary, who was staring at her father without blinking.

"I quite agree, dear – I'll join you," Cora put in, standing suddenly and making her way over to her husband – once again, taking his arm as she did as they were walking in to dinner.

Violet looked almost affronted. "Well, I dare say I'll see myself out. Carson, please inform…that new chauffeur—" she gestured with a dismissive wave of her hand – "that I am ready. At this point, I think he'd be rather more attentive company."

As she rose, she made her way over to where Matthew and Mary were seated – clasping each of their hands warmly. "Well done," was all she said, but just as she was about to release Matthew's hand, she added, "A wise decision, if I do say so myself."

Matthew bowed his head, allowing a half smile of acknowledgment at her year-ago words – which brought another brief remembrance of his prior engagement. He couldn't deny he still felt guilt, but when he considered the idea that in three days he would be married to Mary, he couldn't bring himself to feel grief.

No, that was reserved for Robert now, he thought – turning his eyes towards the current Earl and Countess, who were now bidding Violet goodnight at the door.

Glancing at Mary, they both made their way over to where her parents were standing. Cora turned to them with a warm smile. "It's just so wonderful," she exclaimed. "I still can't believe it!"

"Quite so," Robert offered. "I think it's safe to say you've made all of us so very happy." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing around the room – where Edith and Isobel were now chatting politely. "I hope…y_ou_ will be very happy," he said, lowering his voice with sincerity.

Matthew saw Mary turn on her most insincere smile and direct it at her father. "Of course we will," she proclaimed, brightly. "What could possibly spoil such a joyous occasion as this?"

"What indeed!" Robert remarked, clearly unfazed by his daughter's attitude.

Cora, still apparently overcome with emotion, reached for Mary's hand, with a cry of "Oh!" as she kissed her cheek. Then she looked at Matthew, and after a moment's hesitation, exclaimed, "Oh, you're both my darlings!" and kissed his cheek, as well.

"How very American," commented Violet, who was still waiting for her car outside the door – though the glint of affection in her eyes betrayed her dismissive words.

Matthew snuck a look over his shoulder and caught his mother's eye while she was chatting with Edith. She gave him a nod, as if to suggest their own departure might also be imminent.

He then turned back to Mary, who was left staring after her parents – the couple making their way up the stairs, arm in arm. All her pretense and smiles and false bravado were drained away, and the fear she clearly had been trying to suppress all evening, seemed to be shining in her eyes. Quietly, he took her hand, as they remained silent for a moment.

When her father had disappeared from view, she turned back to Matthew – and for a moment, she looked so utterly lost that he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her and comfort her, uncaring at whether or not it would be proper to do so.

"I'll come by tomorrow after work," he told her, softly. "I'm sure Mother will, as well – she's got that look in her eyes like she has a new project. You might want to warn cousin Cora," he attempted to comment, lightly – trying to ease the mood a bit, as if he could rid her of that sad expression with a mere change in topic.

He did receive a small smile for his efforts. "I shall no doubt be spending the day trying to hunt down a suitable dress. If only I could shoot one…like we do on an actual hunt." That smile was now a cross between forced and genuine, as she added, "Perhaps we will see you later for tea?"

"I shall look forward to it," he replied, grasping her hand even tighter. After only a moment's pause, he leaned in and kissed her cheek, lingering there for slightly longer than he should have in polite company. "Goodnight, my darling," he murmured softly, almost against her skin, before drawing back into a more socially appropriate position for a proper goodbye.

"Goodnight, Matthew," she responded, with as warm a smile as he'd seen from her all evening. Then, suddenly she added, "It will be alright." Somehow, it came out as halfway between a question and a statement.

To anyone else, it might've seemed a silly thing to say when he was about to leave, but within the context of their secret, it of course made perfect sense. "Until tomorrow," he said – realizing the room had all at once become silent. His mother must have surely exhausted all possible conversation topics with Edith and was now simply milling around, waiting to leave. Mary nodded, accepted best wishes from his mother and bid them both goodnight.

As he and his mother headed for the door, Matthew quietly contemplated the day's events. How he'd gone from the distant dream of ever being with Mary again to being engaged to her. How he'd gone from barely speaking to her for the last eight months to marrying her in three days.

How he'd gone from thinking he'd have many more years to learn about the estate under cousin Robert's tutelage to the prospect of becoming Earl himself in less than a month.

Well, his cousin had certainly been right about one thing. Timing really was almost always imperfect.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I'm so grateful to everyone who has left a review! The next couple chapters will lack one of these notes, because I think I'd just rather have them speak for themselves. I'll be "back" to wrap everything up afterwards. Enjoy!_

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><p>Mary was not having a good day.<p>

She'd barely slept the night before – how could she possibly, when it seemed her entire life had been upended in both the most pleasant and unpleasant ways. Everything had been taken from her, and given to her at once – and she had no idea how exactly to react. Every time she felt sad, she'd think of Matthew, and how they'd have the rest of their lives together. But every time she felt hopeful, she'd think of her father and wonder how long she had left with him.

Breakfast had been no better. Papa had not joined them for it – and while in some ways, Mary was glad of the respite, in others she was even more infuriated. Her mother had offered some breezy excuse about how he had some business to attend to, and was thus breakfasting upstairs – and Edith had seemed ready to accept it, without comment.

"Does that not strike you as odd?" Mary asked her sister, ignoring a warning look from Mama. "Papa always breakfasts with us."

Edith shrugged her shoulders lightly. "Papa's a very busy man, Mary – he's not required to eat with us, you know."

At this, her mother had gratefully changed the subject, and Mary was left to stare in disbelief at her sister, who accepted this perfectly illogical excuse without blinking an eye.

Mary interrupted whatever inane topic Mama was going on about, to interject: "I asked Matthew to tea this afternoon. He mentioned cousin Isobel might stop by later, so I figured she might join us, as well." She knew while it wasn't exactly the height of rudeness, her mother had never taken too kindly to surprises.

"How wonderful!" her mother exclaimed. "Oh, perhaps we shall take tea in the library – the better to discuss the layout of the ceremony…I'll see if Mrs. Hughes can sit in so she can start the preparations…" Mama laid her napkin on the table, and smiled at her daughters, as if she had not a care in the world. "Well…we do have a long day ahead of us! Best to make an early start of it!"

You have no idea, Mary thought – as she dragged herself from the table.

If they thought her mood would improve once they got to Ripon, they were sadly mistaken. Obviously, two days meant the dressmaker had no time to actually make any of them a suitable dress for the occasion, so they were forced to look in the shops and whatever dresses they purchased would have to be altered back at the house.

Her mother and Edith quickly found dresses they liked right away, but Mary seemed to despise everything she saw. They'd gone to three shops, and nothing looked right to her. In addition, Mama seemed to be deliberately taking a painstaking amount of time in every shop – no doubt to give Papa a chance to rest or for Dr. Clarkson to attend to him in secret while they all were out, completely unawares.

She realized suddenly that had been the reason her mother had dragged her and Edith into the village yesterday, as well – around a similar time. It had all been part of the same charade – their roles in the farce, as it were.

Mary was preparing to leave the third shop with a sigh of disgust, when she heard her mother speak. "You know…something rather occurs to me…" There was a curious lilt to her voice, and Mary knew whatever Mama was about to say, she did not want to hear it. An assumption proved utterly correct with her mother's next statement: "You do…already have a wedding dress."

In an attempt to control herself, Mary slowly let out a breath, as she tried to keep her tone as nonchalant as possible: "Oh, Mama…I believe it's considered bad form to wear a dress from a failed wedding."

"But it wasn't a failed wedding, if it never happened in the first place," Edith put in. "It's not as though you were left stranded at the altar…" _Just had an engagement ended rather publicly, mere weeks before the impending nuptials_, Mary supplied silently for her sister – but quickly pushed the thought out of her mind. She did not want to think upon what had happened with Sir Richard on a normal day, let alone this one.

"Oh – darling, I understand why you don't want to wear it, but you've found nothing else!" Mama insisted. "And it _is_ a perfectly good wedding dress – I could get O'Brien to add a little something to it, so it wouldn't be exactly the same as—"

"No," was all Mary could say – unable to fully express to her mother exactly how much she did not want to wear that dress. It was the most formal and stately looking gown – more befitting of a London wedding than one at Downton. But she'd chosen it when she had accepted the fact that she would become Sir Richard's trophy wife – the prized bauble of his collection - and was determined to look the part as much as possible.

Seizing upon these points, Mary desperately tried to plead her case with logic: "After all, it was made for a church wedding – it will look completely ridiculous in the library."

However, it was to no avail. "Mary, I'm sorry, but I see no other solution. Either you pick one of these dresses or you shall have to wear the one that was already made. I'm willing to be reasonable, but you must also compromise a bit."

_Compromise_. Mary felt as if she'd done nothing _but_ compromise for the past day. There was only so much one could be expected to compromise, surely! Yet the prospect of picking one of these decidedly ordinary dresses, seemingly at random, for the most important day of her life held just as little appeal.

Still, she was not ready to concede just yet. "And what of Matthew's attire? He'll look downright silly if I'm in that monstrosity and he's—"

She caught the eyes of her mother, which suddenly radiated with a ghastly sympathy, and she knew. It was so obvious. Matthew's wedding (unlike her own) had been days away. Of course he'd have had a suit made for it.

It was as if Lavinia and Sir Richard would _be_ at her wedding now. Literal and metaphorical ghosts, and her father less than a fortnight away from joining their ranks. She had to admit it was rather appropriate.

"Very well…" she replied, quietly. As firmly as she could, she then declared, "I will wear the dress as is. O'Brien needn't change a thing." Somehow, invoking the specter of the weddings-that-never-were seemed to conjure the mindset she'd held for those long months before everything had changed.

She headed for the door, before her mother could say anything further. "Shouldn't we be getting back? I'm sure Papa will be wondering what's happened to us," Mary added – then pushed out of the shop, blinking rapidly and trying to swallow the unpleasant taste in her mouth as she hurried to the car.

* * *

><p>Despite wanting to leave Ripon as soon as possible, Mary took her time exiting the car once they'd returned home, not wanting to go inside and face Papa or even Carson or…anyone to whom she'd have to lie politely. When she finally made her way through the door of the house, however, she almost ran straight into Dr. Clarkson, accompanied by one of the maids.<p>

For a moment, terror gripped her – eyes widening as she stared at the man – wanting to grab him and shake him and ask him what was happening to her father. But then she remembered she wasn't supposed to know, and forced a smile over the bile rising in her throat. "Dr. Clarkson!" she exclaimed, with a cheeriness so sharp it could've cut glass. "What brings you here? Nothing too serious, I hope!"

She was at once pleased and terrified at his momentarily panicked expression, before he quickly covered it with what she could only assume was an equally false smile of his own. "Oh no, Lady Mary," he responded. "One of the maids has come down with something…Nelly here was just leading the way."

"Oh? How terrible," Mary mused, her brow furrowing as she glanced at the maid. She looked vaguely familiar, but Mary did not recognize her. This seemed especially odd, considering she made a point of learning the names of all the servants. "Nelly, I'm not sure we've had the—"

Then she realized why she knew Nelly. Mary recognized her from the hospital several years back – when she herself had been a near daily visitor. Nelly was a few years older than Sybil, and indeed had seemed to be rather a mentor to her sister – especially for the brief time that cousin Isobel was in France.

It was quite a horrific epiphany, as she realized Dr. Clarkson (no doubt at Papa's behest) had had a nurse dress as a maid to avoid suspicion.

"Do you know, I'm sorry - I really must be going," Mary stated, withdrawing her outstretched hand as inconspicuously as she could. "Please do pass along my good wishes to the maid who is ill – I very much hope she feels better." With another smile that seemed to be stretching her cheeks, she gave Dr. Clarkson another look and headed toward the stairs.

"Excuse me, m'lady." She turned around to meet Mrs. Hughes' no nonsense look. "Her Ladyship wanted me to inform you that Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Crawley have arrived, and are waiting in the library, along with the rest of the family."

Mary nodded, absently – managing a "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes" as she arranged her expression into something resembling interest. She'd nearly forgotten about the tea – and realized she hadn't yet removed her coat, but it was too late now. Squaring her shoulders and exhaling a long breath, she headed for the library.

When she entered, the two men in the room stood up – her eyes traveling first to Matthew, her insincere mask cracking a bit under his gaze, then to her father – who appeared to be still in the process of standing.

"Papa, don't!" she exclaimed, suddenly – now earning a raised eyebrow from her grandmother, confused glances from Edith and cousin Isobel and a warning stare from her mother. Only Matthew seemed to look at her with any kind of understanding. Thinking quickly, she offered, "Well, it hardly seems necessary. As if I need any further reminders of my apparent tardiness."

She glanced around the room, spying the empty seat next to cousin Isobel on one of the red sofas. Matthew was seated in a chair next to where she'd be sitting and she had the oddest sense of déjà vu. With a start, she realized that was where Lavinia had sat, the last time they'd all taken tea in the library together, when that maid, Ethel, had interrupted their lunch.

As if she needed reminding of the fact that she was taking Lavinia's place, she thought, as she sat down, and accepted the cup and saucer that were handed to her.

Her mother then turned to her grandmother, continuing a conversation that had clearly been started in Mary's absence. "What are we going to do about gifts? It's too late to send out invitations, but I don't want people showing up empty-handed to a wedding…"

"How embarrassing. Then again, I suppose that'd be nothing new for some of them," Granny scoffed.

"Mama, we're giving them less than three days notice. I don't think it's quite fair to expect them to bring gifts, as well," Mary protested, feebly – glancing at Matthew, who nodded and seemed to try to voice his approval before he was cut off.

"Oh, nonsense, Mary – of course it is!" Her mother answered, so cheerfully that Mary could not determine whether she was sincere or not. Honestly, she wasn't sure what would be worse.

Beside her, she could see cousin Isobel turn towards the group, appearing to address no one in particular: "It really is an exquisite space. Just perfect for a wedding."

Mary attempted a polite smile, and she could see Matthew doing the same, but her mother interrupted the moment: "For the ceremony, yes – but I rather think it's going to be too small for the luncheon afterwards. We'll have to have that in the hall, I think."

"No," Mary said, automatically – bringing all conversation in the room to a halt. She took a sip of her tea and attempted to collect herself. "We could put up a partition, as we did during the war, so the ceremony would be in one part of the library and the luncheon in the other," she suggested, with a hopeful smile.

But Mama would have no part of it. "I'm afraid it's not big enough to accommodate all our guests, plus the servants…no, we'll have it in the hall – that's a much more adequate space."

"Mary, do you have something against the hall?" Edith wanted to know. It sounded like an innocent enough question, but Mary was in no mood to be charitable.

She rolled her eyes at her sister as she responded, "It is still _my _wedding, is it not? Must I have a reason?"

"Well, yes you must!" her grandmother informed her, as Mary felt her heart sink. "You wish to be married as soon as possible, my dear – then you must be willing to make some sacrifices!"

"Sacrifices…" Mary spluttered, almost incoherently. Her eyes suddenly lit upon her father, who didn't appear to be looking back at her, and at that moment, she wanted nothing in the world so much as his attention. "I had the pleasure of running into the new maid. Her name is Nelly."

Her gaze then shifted to Edith, and she turned on her sweetest smile. "Edith, have you gotten a chance to meet her yet? I think Sybil might've been introduced before she left."

Edith merely gave her a look. "What do you mean Sybil got a chance to meet her – if she's new, how could Sybil have known her at all – she's been gone for months!"

Mary nodded almost imperceptibly – willing her sister to take the bait, to ask the question…

But Mama unfortunately saw Edith's hesitation as the chance to change the subject. "Right, so – we should talk about flowers…" Then, she laughed briefly, with an apologetic glance at the two men in the room. "I'm sorry, Robert…Matthew – you must forgive us the subject matter. We just have rather a lot to plan in a very short amount of time." Her mother glanced at Mary, who tensed even further under her gaze.

"No, no – it's quite alright," her father reassured everyone – finally now deigning to look at Mary. "It is the greatest pleasure for a parent to be able to give a daughter exactly what she wants."

Something inside Mary snapped.

"Exactly what she wants?" she repeated, the cup in her hand starting to tremble against the saucer. "You think this is what I want? Does _anyone_ think _this _is what I want?" Once more, she turned to Edith – now almost begging her sister to work it out for herself. "Not being married in a church? A rushed wedding in three days? Does that sound like me at all?"

"Mary, what are you saying?" Edith asked, almost aghast.

"Nothing – it's just pre-wedding anxiety," her mother reassured everyone, with a smile so wide and false that Mary could see even cousin Isobel starting to look askance at it. "All brides go through this, you must understand. Why, I remember before my wedding—"

A burst of laughter sprung from Mary's lips, effectively cutting her mother off. For Mama to talk of her own wedding to Papa…Papa – the only reason she'd agreed to this timetable, who was sipping tea in pretend ignorance. One of Granny's favorite sayings sprung to mind: _It's the look of the thing that matters_, and with this wedding, he'd managed to shift all the focus off himself and his condition.

"This is absurd!" Mary exclaimed over the rattle of her cup against the saucer. "Utterly absurd – do none of you see it? None of it makes any sense, and yet you all accept it because you think it's what _I want_?" She stared directly at her father now, her voice rising in desperation. "What about Matthew? He's suffered more than I ever have, and you drag _him_ into this?"

At this, all eyes in the room turned to Matthew, who looked down at his feet, swallowing – before she saw him reach for her hand, a pleading expression in his eyes. "Mary…" he started, and he seemed to be trying to calm her, trying to make it better – which only made it worse.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of reward for my difficult year?" she asked her father, now directly addressing him. "Or is it a punishment? Does marrying me off as soon as possible somehow mitigate all the shame I've brought upon this family?"

"Mary, I don't think you're at all well…why don't you go upstairs and lie down?" Her mother's voice was low, and almost shaking with all kinds of emotion.

Her mother's wording was a joke in and of itself, and Mary couldn't suppress another surge of sad, bitter laughter. "_I'm_ not well? Really, Mama? Well, you're quite right – I am _sick_ of making everyone else feel better! Is not honesty the far healthier option? I'd have thought that was a lesson that wouldn't have eluded us _this _year!"

As if to emphasize her point, there was a sudden shattering of china. She looked to see her own cup, still tremulously balanced on the lip of her saucer, while her mother's cup now lay in pieces at her feet

Nobody spoke for a moment…the silence almost deafening. Then there seemed to be a black-clad blur rushing over to her mother. Mrs. Hughes was at her feet, trying to pick up the broken cup, while Mama's expression now mirrored Mary's own cup, teetering on the edge and trying not to fall over.

"Mary is right."

Everyone now turned to her father, who sat quietly in his chair – his eyes reflecting the utmost sadness as they fixed upon his eldest daughter. "There is something I wish to share with you all…something I should have told you before—"

But Mary was on her feet before he could say anything more – not wanting to hear it, not able to spend one more minute in that room that suddenly felt as small and cramped as her mother had described when she'd proclaimed it an inadequate space for a wedding luncheon.

She heard Matthew call after her, but she couldn't stop – couldn't go back – as she left her cup and saucer on the table in the entryway, and pushed through the door out into the waning light of the late afternoon. Her feet were now carrying her, directing her to the only place she wanted to be at this particular moment.

The place where it had all gone wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

It was both the last place he'd thought she'd ever be, and the first place he'd gone to look for her.

Once he'd excused himself (as politely as he could) after she'd left – he'd hastily exited the library, thinking she'd gone up to her room. Realizing he couldn't exactly follow her up there, he'd been determined to find one of the maids or someone who could get a message to her – and had looked for a place to set down the cup and saucer he was still holding,

That was when he'd spotted hers on the table, and his eyes had traveled to the door. Of course, she'd gone out. She wouldn't want to stay confined in the house that she felt was imprisoning her (possibly for the rest of her life). If he now had all sorts of conflicting emotions towards the house and its current inhabitants, he could only imagine what she must be feeling.

Thinking she wouldn't have waited for the car, he set out on foot after her. The grounds were enormous, and she could so easily be anywhere – on that bench by the Lebanon Cedar tree or wandering through the (mostly dead) gardens. That is, if she hadn't gone down to the village…

He'd started walking there (walking…funny how he'd gotten so used to that again) almost on a whim, but stopped as soon as he'd reached the cemetery.

Somehow, he'd known that was exactly where she'd be.

The church gate had been open, which seemed rather unusual, and when he'd made his way across the lawn, he'd spotted her off to the side – her head bowed as she stood by a familiar grave.

As he approached her, he saw her hand travel up to her face, as if to wipe away any tears that had formed.

"Oh, Mary…" he murmured, softly announcing his presence behind her.

"I miss her," Mary admitted, touching the lettering on Lavinia's gravestone. "I realize that's rather silly, considering… But she was a lovely person. I grew quite fond of her…" Finding his eyes, she added, "I know she made you happy."

Matthew closed his eyes, having forgotten until that moment that Mary had been present in the room when Lavinia had died. That she had heard everything he'd said to his dying fiancée (as well as everything he hadn't said).

Turning slightly, she gave him a look and the barest hint of a smile. "I never knew she was called Catherine. Compared to London, she probably found this place as untamed as the moors…" Mary mused, almost fondly. "Perhaps you should dig her up – she'd make a far better bride, I think."

Only Mary would deflect from the reality of their situation by producing a far more dismal literary equivalent for comparison. "I think…I take issue with your casting," he replied, lightly – his lips turning up in a grim smile, in spite of himself.

His attempt at humor seemed to fall flat, however, as she let out a sigh. "I don't know if Heathcliff and Catherine were ever supposed to be together. Their love was so destructive. It took the next generation to sort it all out." Then she smiled to herself. "I could've been content, knowing that might happen. Your son and my daughter at some London ball in 20 years time…"

"Where she'd earn his hopeless adoration by insulting his dancing skills?" Matthew teased her, gently – before turning serious once more. "I rather prefer life to some literary fantasy."

She glanced at him briefly. "They want us to wear the costumes from our failed weddings, and share a dance in a haunted hall…" Her gaze then flickered down to her clasped hands. "I think I prefer the literary fantasy."

He moved a step closer to her as he spoke. "Mary, you can't possibly believe that hall is haunted…"

"Not with ghosts, of course not." He was relieved to at least earn one of her patented disbelieving glares. "Still, I'm not sure it's wise to tempt the fates by returning to the scene of the crime…"

His heart ached painfully with her words – to hear a variation on what he'd so carelessly thrown in her face all those months ago. "There was no crime," he tried to assure her. "There was only…my cowardice. You and Lavinia both deserved more..." he hesitated, before he realized there was no other word to describe it: "…honesty."

"Honesty…" she repeated, thoughtfully. "Someone once told me it was the best policy. Carson agreed – he thought I should tell you...well, everything." Her eyes found his, reflecting warmth and affection. Then just as quickly, she turned back to the gravestone. "But I couldn't do that to Lavinia, you see – it wouldn't have been fair to her…or to you. Not when you were so happy—"

"Will you please stop saying that?" Matthew asked suddenly, now turning to face her – wanting to reach for her hands, but forcing himself not to touch her…not just yet.

That awful day had come back to him once more in all its shuddering clarity. How he'd used the word "happy" to cover for the word he couldn't say…an emotion he couldn't feel. How he'd tried to force words into his mouth that wouldn't form, because they weren't true, and even when Lavinia was dying, he couldn't bring himself to comfort her with a lie.

They left that subject alone for a moment, as he sighed heavily, thinking of what she'd mentioned earlier. "Do you believe that honesty is always the best policy?" he wondered, now staring at the ground. When he looked up, she was staring back at him – her expression inscrutable – and suddenly they were no longer talking of what had happened between them.

She shifted a little under his gaze, her eyes darting to some unseen point ahead of them in the distance. "Two months ago, I would've said yes," she admitted. "But today…" Trailing off, her smile seemed almost self-deprecating. "In some ways, I rather envied them all – being able to live their lives in ignorance."

Matthew couldn't help but flinch at her words, wondering when the day would come when he would begin to help shoulder her burdens rather than merely add to them. "You know that's my fault," he admitted. "I think …I believed you'd want to know…because _I_ wanted to know."

He glanced at her, sadly – feeling as he always did when he spoke of what she had been forced to endure in the eyes of society. A tremendous sense of loss came over him - for her, for them and for all the years he wanted back so desperately. He equally could not fault her for failing to tell him, nor could he deny that he wished so much that she had.

To his surprise, she seemed to smile to herself, shrugging her shoulders a bit – almost as if she was reliving a memory. Then she looked up at him. "Do you remember all that happened two months ago?" she asked, quietly.

He was puzzled for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly – not exactly sure what it was she wished for him to say. "That…business…" It still pained him even to speak of it, "…in the papers, and how it…ended your engagement."

At this, Matthew had to suppress another wave of fury at Sir Richard Carlisle, and the man's unconscionable callousness for not even having the decency to break off the engagement with Mary in private. No, the man had to choose the most visible location – the swankiest party with all of London society in attendance – the better to humiliate her in the most public forum imaginable.

"Yes," she murmured, now glancing briefly at her hands once more before finding Matthew's eyes again. "But that is not _all_ that happened…"

He must've looked so confused that she took pity on him, for she softly added, "You came out of mourning." Her fingers became fascinating once more, staring at them as she spoke. "I remember when I saw you – I was so surprised..." Swallowing whatever emotion had clearly crept up on her, she resumed her train of thought: "Do you remember what you said to me?"

Matthew shook his head, murmuring, "I'm…afraid I don't," trying to reserve his hesitation.

She sighed, with what seemed to be an understanding smile. "You said it was time to move on." Rubbing her lips together, she continued: "The next day, we found out…what would be printed in the papers. And the day after that…" Mary took a breath, as if she was about to reveal something important. "I released Sir Richard from our engagement."

Now he really was confused. "You released…? I…I don't understand…"

"Sir Richard still wanted to go through with it," she confessed. "Perhaps even more after my scandal broke - since marrying the Earl's fallen daughter would've made _him_ the more respectable one in the marriage. But I…" Her voice had gradually filled with a calm surety as she spoke: "I decided it was time for me to move on, as well."

Matthew could only look at her, speechless.

Drawing in another breath, she sighed. "Naturally, Sir Richard had no desire to let me out of the engagement. He said he'd find some other way to ruin my family…or ruin you. So, instead, I gave him something else he wanted."

"The chance to rewrite the story," Matthew concluded, bitterly – almost in disbelief at where this was heading.

She nodded. "I knew it would provide a compelling distraction – fresh gossip always does. He could barely cause any more damage than what had already been done. So, I secured an invitation to one of those society functions he despised so much – where he could tell the world it was _he_ who ended our engagement. And he did."

Matthew's heart was in his throat as he gazed at Mary. All this time, she'd allowed others to think she'd been left in disgrace…when she had really orchestrated all of it. By allowing herself to be so publicly savaged by Sir Richard, she'd surrendered any chance she might've had of at least preserving a portion of her reputation, and all to save her family from whatever that man might think to try against them next.

Not only that, but she'd done it all without hope of any kind of prospects for her future.

In that moment, he was so in awe of her bravery, he didn't trust himself to speak properly.

When he remained silent, she offered a knowing shrug. "So…do _you_ still believe honesty to be the best policy?" she asked, turning his earlier question back on him with a small smile and a look that seemed almost pleading.

Unable and unwilling to restrain himself any longer, he reached for her hands, his fingers intertwining with hers as he tearfully admitted the only thing he wanted to say to her in that moment:

"God, Mary, I…I love you."

After a day of forced, insincere and too bright smiles, the one he received from her in response was the most genuine he'd ever seen.

Whatever he could have said after that smile would've been lacking, so he gently cupped her cheeks and found her lips instead – in a searing kiss of apology and adoration.

He should have pulled back after one kiss (they were in public, after all), but he allowed himself another, and another – her head tilting slightly, back and forth in his hands as she kissed him back – her fingers knitting together behind his head, into his hair. He reluctantly drew away only when he could scarcely control the urge to move his hands to her waist and pull her closely to him so he could kiss her deeply…

Still, he let his hands fall to her shoulders, and slide softly down her arms as he released her from his hold. He then realized he'd been kissing Mary in full view of Lavinia's grave, and it suddenly brought back…all that his former fiancée had said before she died. "You know, Lavinia was right about so many things. But at the time I just…couldn't hear them."

His eyes traveled to the gravestone, remembering the painful truths he'd unloaded on Mary all those months ago. _I belonged with you… _If he'd ever doubted the veracity of Lavinia's words, he most certainly believed them now.

Mary smiled in acknowledgment, but her expression seemed to radiate despair. "Yet, you did hear Papa…" she trailed off, blinking rapidly – clearly biting her lip in an attempt to keep her composure.

"Oh, my dear…I am so very sorry." For a few brief moments, he felt as if they'd been able to forget what had brought them here in the first place. "I wish I could take it all from you, I wish—" he lamented, his voice on the verge of breaking as he thought of all she had survived in the name of one mistake.

"No, Matthew…" she assured him, now placing a hand on his cheek as she found his eyes. "I certainly wouldn't wish any of this on you – or on anyone. Please don't blame yourself."

"But I never should have told you…about your Papa." He swallowed, uncomfortably. "You said yourself you didn't want to know." Indeed, that was the worst part of it, he thought. That after all she'd endured, it was not yet over…that she would have to go through so much more.

Mary's hand dropped from the side of his face, and she sighed. "I wanted to know," she admitted, softly. "…But not from you." Her voice had become small in the quiet of the waning afternoon.

"Talk to him, Mary," he implored her. A flicker of a sad smile crossed his lips as he added, "You don't want to go through life with regrets."

She returned his sad smile, and with a nod of assent, they began walking out of the cemetery. His hand glided softly along her back – trying to communicate all the support and affection and admiration he felt for her in that simple gesture.

Turning around briefly, Matthew gave Lavinia's grave a final glance. The grief he'd felt was but a distant memory, and the guilt was slowly fading as well. In its place there appeared to be an almost abstract feeling of sadness. She had been a lovely person whose beautiful, brief life had not deserved the cruelty of her ultimate fate. He realized the next time he visited her grave, he would be married, and he could only hope that wherever she was, she was as at peace as he felt in this particular moment.

He paused to close the church gate behind them before turning to Mary once more. "I have something to do at the house," he said, indicating the other familiar gate across the road where Crawley House stood. "But I'd like to see you later this evening."

Mary nodded, briefly. "Will we see you at dinner?"

"I think not. Tonight, you should dine with your family." He paused a moment. "Perhaps I'll stop by later."

"Very well. Mind that you don't keep me waiting." Her lips seemed to turn up, offering the slightest glimmer of a smile.

"No…I think I've kept you waiting quite long enough."

Before she could respond, Matthew grasped her hand once more, kissing her sweetly on the cheek. Then he watched as she made her way back up the road, toward the big house before he headed in the opposite direction toward his own home.

He had some unfinished business to take care of before he saw her again.


	7. Chapter 7

When she reentered the house she was overwhelmed by the almost funereal atmosphere. For a brief, terrifying moment, she'd wondered if something had happened in her absence – as if somehow being at the cemetery could conjure death itself…but Carson's stoic nod as she handed him her coat and hat in the corridor assured her that all was as well as it could be (for now, anyway).

It didn't stop her from asking all the same. "Carson…" Her breath drew in. "Is…is his Lordship…" she tried, vainly – but could not bring herself to complete the sentence – no matter the end of it.

In his inimitable way, Carson seemed to understand. "In his room, m'lady…I believe he's resting now. I just saw one of the maids take a tray up."

Mary covered her mouth with her hand. Somehow the implication that her father would not be joining them for dinner brought a level of seriousness his condition had seemed to lack before.

Murmuring her distracted thanks to Carson, she started climbing the stairs. Were there always this many or was she simply so numb from the cold (among other things) that they just seemed interminable now?

The door to her parents' room seemed stark and imposing in the dim light of early evening. How many times had she opened it before without a second thought – seeing her father emerge from his dressing room, as if it was the most normal thing in the world? She thought briefly of a day when she'd enter her parents' room and wouldn't see her father – then realized sadly that day would never come. The day she stopped seeing Papa would likely be very close to the day she started seeing Matthew emerge from that same dressing room.

Shaking her head clear of the idea, Mary felt for the doorknob as if she was fumbling in the dark, her fingers closing uncertainly over it. The creak of the door seemed to assault her ears, and her eyes fluttered shut. She did not want to go in there – she did not want to see her father sick. Indeed, Mary wasn't sure she could remember a time when she'd even seen him in her parents' bed. He always seemed to simply come out of his dressing room and stand there until she left.

But her fears outweighed her doubts…if something happened and she never got a chance to speak with Papa…well, she might as well never set foot in the house again, for that would be one ghost too many inhabiting its walls.

The door opened the rest of the way, and for the second time in a year, she saw one of her parents at their most vulnerable. Her father was at least sitting up – propped up with pillows similar to the cushions she'd noticed in his chair for the past day. He seemed to have aged 10 years in the span of an afternoon, and she swallowed the horror she felt to look upon him like this.

"Hello, Papa," she called softly – wishing her voice did not sound as small as she was feeling in that moment.

He turned to face her, his expression seeming to soften in that familiar, paternalistic way – and instantly, she felt a little more at ease. "Mary…." was all he said, though it came out more as a croak than actual speech.

She tried to tell herself she'd been through this before – for heaven's sake, she'd sat with Matthew for what seemed like days on end, nursing him and caring for him without a second thought, never once feeling intimidated by his situation. But this…felt so very different.

Spotting a chair in the corner of the room, Mary sat herself down, though she still kept a respectable distance from her father's bedside. In another strange reversal, while at the time, she couldn't bear to take her eyes off Matthew, now she almost couldn't bear to look directly at Papa.

"Everyone is aware of my…condition now, so you needn't worry," he declared, appearing to glance down briefly at his hands folded neatly on his lap. The gesture reminded Mary of all the times she'd seen her father at his desk in the library, his hands always folding into that same position as he spoke to her.

"I see…" was all she could say in response. "No doubt they all took the news much better than I did." She managed a self-deprecating smile – anything that might lighten the mood between them.

Her father smiled back briefly, before turning serious once more: "Had it been up to me, you would've been among their number today." Interestingly, his lament seemed to hold no trace of bitterness.

"Papa, had it been up to you, no one would've been among their number today," Mary reminded him, feeling herself relax slightly as they resumed their familiar roles.

He could only nod, knowingly. "Quite right," he agreed, not even bothering to pretend otherwise.

"But you did tell someone…" she continued, smiling to herself that even at the end, she was passed over in favor of Matthew. Indeed, it rather seemed to be her lot in life as far as her relationship with her father was concerned.

Something in her tone must've given her away. "Yes, I told Matthew," he sighed, almost sadly. "But he is not my child. I don't deny I've come to think of him as my own, yet the fact remains he is not." Her father was quiet a moment, leaning back a bit as if deep in thought. "I don't expect you to understand. I can only tell you that someday, you'll recognize…that inherent urge to protect your children." There was significance to his words, as if the implication of this was only now occurring to him.

She blinked, not wanting to think of her children…Matthew's children…children who would never know their grandfather. "But _I_ am not a child," she insisted. "After all that's happened, surely you did not think me incapable of handling such news?"

"On the contrary," her father mused, fondly. "It is precisely the reason I wished to keep it from you. Because you _would_ handle it – you would take it upon yourself to hold everyone else together, as you did throughout the war…as you're doing even now." His voice softened as he gazed at her, seeming so utterly sad. "You've taken on that role admirably, my child…but it's never been what I wanted for you."

Shifting slightly in her chair, she felt threads of the familiar tension that had existed between them for as long as she could remember. "Yes, well – now you shall have it," she stated. "I will be settled, and the future of Downton will be secure once more." The words came out with more of an edge than she would've liked, but these were years-old wounds that had only recently begun to heal.

Her father bowed his head, with an almost imperceptible shake. "You think that is why I pushed you towards Matthew for all these years. Why I tried to dissuade your mother from suggesting far more advantageous matches for you. If that is what you truly believe…Mary, it's no wonder you're so unhappy."

The room now swam in front of her, her chin quivering with the effort of containing her emotions. "What would you expect of me, Papa? Am I supposed to forget I'm losing my father simply because I'm gaining…" Her voice cracked awkwardly as she spoke, only stopping to rephrase the end of her statement: "Because Matthew and I are getting married?"

"No, of course you're not expected to forget." He smiled – such a warm and genuine smile, the likes of which she had not seen for some time, as he continued: "Mary, you seem to view your wedding as a kind of distraction, but have you any idea what a blessing it's been? Not just for me, but for your mother – to give her…to give all of us something to celebrate?" Then he let out a soft chuckle. "Even now, you're holding us together."

"But it's wrong," she protested, tearfully. "It's wrong to celebrate – especially now. What have we to celebrate now?"

His expression seemed to soften immeasurably. "Yesterday, you seemed brighter than we've seen you in months…perhaps even years. I think we'd all agree that's cause for celebration." Her father then leaned forward – moving slightly closer to address her more directly, as Mary reached out to take his hand. "No matter what's happened before, you do deserve that happiness. Don't ever forget that."

Suddenly, it was all too much – and the tears that had been filling her eyes now started to overflow, even as she hastily wiped them away with her other hand. "I'm so sorry, Papa…" she murmured. "I'm sorry for everything." The word _regrets_ came to mind, and indeed she was not certain she'd have enough lifetimes to make up for all the damage she'd caused him, and their family.

Her father looked at her, clasping his other hand over their joined ones. "This year will have seen your mother and Carson spared from the flu, and you and Sybil both settled happily. Everything else is a mere trifle._ Everything_." His last word was accompanied by a squeeze of her hand, and for once in her life, Mary believed her father. The ghost of her past that she'd felt hovering near her for seven years now seemed to at long last finally fade into nothing.

But she still wasn't expecting what he said next: "I'm so proud of you, Mary."

She quickly closed her eyes, trying to at least prevent herself from openly weeping in his presence. To curb the flow of her tears, she managed to joke, "For doing as you requested and finally making a good match with Matthew?"

Her father chuckled softly in response, and seemed to clasp their hands even tighter. "No, my darling girl. For doing as I hoped, and finally allowing yourself to follow your heart."

Mary dipped her head in silent acknowledgment, not entirely certain she could find words to express all she was feeling in that moment. How she could be filled with such aching emptiness, and yet such contented fullness all at once.

Suddenly, she was struck with an idea. Extricating her hand from her father's grasp – patting the back of his hand lightly as she did so, she wiped her eyes, reached up and rang the bell.

Papa gave her a curious look, but her smile must've been reassuring – for he soon settled back against the pillows, clearly trusting her to take care of the situation. It was proof of his faith, and almost enough to make her start weeping again. Still, she managed to restrain herself, sitting up more fully in her chair as the door opened.

"Yes, your Lordship?" It was Nelly – the nurse maid, and the title of nursemaid now had never seemed more fitting. "Is everything alright?"

"It's fine, Nelly," Mary answered. "But I would like another tray brought up." Glancing towards Papa, she continued, "And if you would kindly inform her Ladyship that I will be dining with his Lordship this evening."

* * *

><p>Mary left the room after Dr. Clarkson had arrived with for what apparently was his nightly evaluation of Papa's condition. She'd used that opportunity to bid her father goodnight and quietly slip out into the corridor.<p>

With a start, she realized she'd missed dinner. Not the portion that involved eating, but actually dressing for it. She'd not changed into evening clothes, nor had she put on gloves or had her hair done since before she'd left for Ripon.

Yet somehow, that seemed appropriate today, she thought – as she descended the stairs…and saw Matthew, who appeared to be waiting for her in the hall.

He was…walking across the room, and she stopped for a moment to watch him. Her stare grew fonder when she realized he was pacing. Seeming to sense her presence, he stopped in the middle of the room and turned round – looking almost startled to see her.

The joke was too easy to resist: "You look as though you've seen a ghost," she greeted him.

For a moment, he opened his mouth as if to protest – but then his expression relaxed into a smile. "I don't believe I'm the one who's been seeing ghosts," he calmly informed her.

"Quite so," she quipped, easily falling back into their rapport as if it had not been nearly a year since they'd last spoken in this way. "I visited the Ghost of Christmas Past at the cemetery, and had dinner with the Ghost of Christmas Present." She hoped her smile would cover her unease, but she feared he knew her too well for it to be as effective a ruse as she would've liked.

To her surprise, he held her gaze…then held out his hand. Momentarily, she wondered if he was hearing a phantom gramophone. "What's this?" she couldn't help but asking – not really being in the mood to dance at this particular moment.

"…I was just wondering if you'd care to accompany the Ghost of Christmas Future?"

Her lips turned up almost involuntarily, as she glanced at his extended hand, and then back at him. "That rather depends on where we're going," she remarked, before adding, "Though I think I take issue with _your_ casting."

He returned her smile, taking a step closer. "Let's just say you're not the only one who'd like to exorcise a few ghosts in this house." His voice was low, with a warmth and seriousness that seemed to settle over her, as she took his proffered hand.

His destination was unable to remain secret for long, as she found him leading her to the entrance of the library. Hand in hand, they walked across the room - over the path he'd tread when he'd come back to her.

If he was going to let it go without a mention, she certainly had no such restraint. "Please tell me you've no intention of a repeat performance," she commented, lightly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the raise of his eyebrows. "Not _that_ kind of repeat performance," he assured her, but said no more. He obviously knew what she was referencing yet his words gave nothing else away.

Still, she noticed they'd stopped very close to where they'd sung together. But she was puzzled when he dropped her hand, and went to stand closer to the side of the room, a little further away from where the piano had been…

In spite of herself, she followed him and they stood, facing one another. She was thankful they were at least close to the fireplace, for she kept shivering, though she knew it was nothing to do with the cold.

He hadn't spoken, just kept gazing at her with such an openly adoring look that she suddenly felt slightly shy. She wanted to speak – to make a joke or comment, but her lips seemed perpetually parted, and unable to manage any kind of speech.

"This is where I first admitted to myself that I wanted to marry you," Matthew said softly, and her eyes widened further.

"The…concert?" she asked, her brow furrowing. It seemed unthinkable – he'd been engaged, after all…surely, he couldn't have just forgotten his fiancée in that moment…

He glanced downward, with a gentle shake of his head. "No…" Now his gaze seemed full of a sweet sort of tenderness. "A bit before then…"

She was so focused on how he was looking at her that she almost missed when he reached into his pocket – his other hand gently taking hers, and placing a ring in her now outstretched palm. He seemed to somehow be seeking her approval, so she delicately lifted it with her other thumb and finger, examining it by the glow of the firelight.

It looked older…certainly not recently purchased – and less than half the size of the ring she'd worn from her prior engagement. Indeed, it even looked smaller than the one she'd seen from his prior engagement. But when it caught the light of the fire the small diamond seemed so radiantly precious, she could barely speak.

"Matthew…" she breathed, unable to say any more.

"I know it won't exactly turn heads in London," he remarked, with a shy smile. "But since you are going to be a lawyer's wife…" Her own lips turned up, as he continued, quietly, "…And…well, a doctor's wife wore it for many years."

She'd lost count of the number of times that day she'd had to choke back a sob – the ring now trembling between her fingers. She wanted to say something – anything – but words seemed woefully inadequate.

"Mother gave it to me…a while ago." His own voice was staring to shake now. "She only ever wanted to wear it for one person, and when he was gone…"

In that moment, she understood cousin Isobel and her grandmother, and even her own mother, more fully than she ever had before. What it was like to have your life so connected to another that it simply became a different life without their presence in it.

Gazing at the ring, she smiled through the tears threatening to fall. "A lawyer's wife…" She tested the words on her tongue. The magnitude of it all seemed to overtake her, as she realized this was a title she would only hold for a brief while. "How can we _be_ anything else? I don't want…" She shook her head, as if the gesture alone could complete her thought.

"I know," he tried to reassure her. "Nor do I. But…whenever that happens, we'll face it together. That's all that matters now."

Nodding tearfully, her fingers brushed his as she handed him the ring, then entwined as he slid it onto her shaking finger before grasping her hand.

"No matter what else happens, my darling…." His thumb brushed over the stone that glinted in the firelight as it adorned her finger. "You're marrying the son of a middle class doctor. Nothing will ever change that."

She glanced down at their hands, and suddenly felt the ring's history. Mary imagined Matthew's mother wearing it to her own wedding – to her first home with her husband, to her job at the hospital. How she must've worn it when she confided to her husband that he was to be a father, and when she clasped Matthew's hand as a small boy on his way to school, and perhaps even when she'd clasped her husband's hand as the man had died.

Regardless of what happened at her own wedding – where the luncheon was held or what they each wore, all of that was over in two days. Mary had been so consumed by the wedding itself, and everything surrounding it, that she'd never really considered the marriage.

"Matthew, I…" she started, wanting to tell him - desperately wanting to reveal all that she'd kept in her heart for so many years. "I…"

But she lacked the words to express her happiness. Papa had been right. She was _happy_. At the thought of marriage, at the ring on her finger, at…

Grasping Matthew's hand a little tighter, she drew him closer to her. His hand traveled down her tear-stained cheek before he tilted her chin and gently kissed her by the glow of the fire. The words were on her lips as they moved against his, but she was unable to speak them aloud. There was too much in her heart for her to communicate any other way.

No matter what else happened, Matthew simply made her happy.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: To say I've been humbled, honored and flattered by your reviews would a drastic understatement. And being mentioned on Tumblr? Seriously, I was blown away._

_I'm simply in awe of your kind words, and cannot tell you how much I've appreciated them! Thank you so very much for all your comments – I put my heart and soul into this story and have received it back tenfold._

_Special thanks to the best sister ever for being the most fabulous beta, for holding my hand through chapter 6, for her undying enthusiasm and simply unceasing support._

_And to my husband for his truly brilliant idea._

* * *

><p>When he awakened that morning, it felt like the happiest day of his life.<p>

The first thing Robert did upon opening his eyes was to close them again in prayer – so utterly thankful that he'd managed to see this day. To see his eldest daughter married, and his youngest daughter return home – to see his family both reunited and growing.

Indeed, he'd never been so grateful to see a year ending. That a new decade was about to begin was almost irrelevant – all that mattered was that the sorrow and anguish of this past year would forever be consigned to the past. It was time to move on, and he quite simply could not think of a better day on which to do it.

If there was anything that could better close out the last year, the last decade, it was this day.

He glanced across the empty bed. No doubt Cora had likely roused O'Brien in the middle of the night – if she'd even slept at all. His wife had seemed pleasantly occupied yesterday. It was wonderful to see her regain her sense of purpose – the perfect hostess once more – as she'd been before the war…as she was always meant to be, he thought.

A familiar face at the door interrupted his musings. "Good morning, Papa," Edith greeted him, carrying his breakfast tray and the morning's papers.

Robert had seen a good deal of his middle daughter, who'd taken over the job of bringing up his meals and newspapers and escorting Dr. Clarkson in and out of the room. When Robert had protested that a maid should be handling these duties, Edith had reminded him how she'd managed an entire convalescent home during the war, so surely she could handle a single patient.

"Good morning, Edith," he replied, glancing at the tray. Truthfully, he wasn't that hungry, but he couldn't tell if that could be put down to nerves or a mere lack of appetite. "How is your mother this morning?"

Edith gave him a knowing look. "As well as can be expected, I suppose. Dr. Clarkson's just arrived, but I told him you were taking breakfast. He's waiting downstairs," she commented, as she poured the tea.

"Why must he intrude upon today, of all days? He can check me over when the ceremony is done," Robert grumbled.

"Papa, he _was_ invited to the wedding," Edith reminded him, handing him the cup and saucer. It shook in his hand, and she immediately removed the saucer to the tray with a practiced efficiency.

He sipped the tea cautiously, before asking, "And how are your sisters?"

The question produced a small smile, and a slight roll of the eyes. "Sybil got in safe and sound. Mary is…strangely calm. Funny, you'd think she got married every day," she shrugged – sounding almost affectionate.

Mary had stopped in briefly yesterday – ostensibly to let him know when Sybil's train would be arriving, but it soon became clear that she had very strong feelings about how her youngest sister should learn of his condition. Sybil was not to be deceived, nor apparently was she to be told straightaway. Even though she was an independent married woman, Mary was still so protective of her.

His girls were all grown up now, he thought with a smile.

"And…how are _you_, Edith?" Robert asked her, suddenly.

She looked shocked for an instant – her clinical mask slipping a bit. As she seemed to lack her older sister's years of steeling her emotions, he could see her blinking rapidly, tears threatening the corners of her eyes.

"Oh…you know me, Papa…" she murmured – before practically rushing to the door. "I'm just going to go check on…" Trailing off, she hurried out of the room.

Robert bowed his head, and sipped some more of his tea. In that moment, Edith reminded him of his own sister. In fact, he'd written to Rosamund of his condition the previous day. He found she always took news better when she at least had some time to digest it, and this would save him from having to inform her during the festivities.

At that point, he'd realized he'd not yet had a chance to arrange for the license or speak with the vicar, but was quickly informed that his mother had contacted Reverend Travis, as well as handled all the necessary paperwork. He found this development utterly unsurprising knowing all of Mama's hardened armor protected a particularly soft heart. Rather like her eldest grandchild, he mused.

The door opened again, startling him from his reverie, as his nurse, Nelly, and his new valet (what the devil _was_ the man's name) entered the room.

After several attempts, it became clear Robert's legs were no longer strong enough to support his weight without leaning considerably on someone else – so he was forced to sit on the bed while his valet and Nelly attended to him. The Earl of Grantham, being dressed like a doll, he thought. Robert was quite certain his Papa had had the good sense to die before the man had been forced to endure such humiliation.

Of course that was also the precise moment that the familiar, unwelcome face of Dr. Clarkson appeared in the doorway.

"How are we today, your Lordship?" Clarkson asked in that tone that told Robert he was not going to like anything the man had to say to him that morning.

"Don't start with me, Clarkson," he snapped, drawing in a breath. "Let's get one thing perfectly clear – I _will _be accompanying my daughter down the aisle, and if you try to stop me, I'll have you dismissed— no, I'll have my mother dismiss you," he finished, trying to sound as threatening as possible in his weakened state.

Robert then took a breath, adding in what he hoped was a more conciliatory tone: "Just…tell me what to do. Whatever it is, I'll do it. But let me see my daughter married."

Clarkson glanced at Nelly with what appeared to be a knowing look. She gave him a questioning shrug, to which he nodded and the nurse suddenly left the room.

All Robert was able to do now was sit and wait.

* * *

><p>The first time he saw his daughter in her wedding dress, he was looking down at her from above.<p>

Mary was standing so calmly – looking so regal, so glamorous, as if she was perfectly content to simply wait there forever.

However, he knew she wouldn't be able to ignore the cacophony for long, as Clarkson and Nelly, along with his new valet, had escorted (almost dragged) Robert from his room and helped him down the stairs, after Edith, Cora and Sybil had gone on ahead. Mary had started to come up to assist, but had luckily been shouted back down by the rest of the family, and thankfully, she'd decided to listen.

Eventually, the procession reached Mary – who was clasping the back of a familiar, but unwelcome contraption. Robert truly thought they'd seen the last of it after what had happened to Matthew, but sure enough, he was now being seated in Matthew's old wheelchair.

"Thank you, Mama," he heard Mary murmur. "I'll take it from here."

"But your dress—" Cora protested.

"Will be perfectly fine. It is but a brief walk."

Robert couldn't help but chuckle to himself. _A brief walk_. If his daughter's journey had been anything, it'd been quite the opposite.

Mary must've heard him, or sensed his thoughts, for she seemed to lean over a bit behind him. "Don't you start," she teased, sounding fond.

Robert grinned. "Well, cousin Matthew first set foot in this house over there, so…" He indicated the distance from the hall to the library with his hand. "A brief walk indeed."

He glanced at Edith and Sybil standing together outside the library. Sybil kept giving him furtive smiles over her shoulder, though her brow was creased with worry. Always sunny, his Sybil – but in a different way than Mary was. His youngest daughter had a natural brightness about her – one that shone through, even when she was upset.

"Are you still quite certain I should not have spoken to Sybil beforehand?" he asked Mary, concernedly.

"Papa, she's a nurse," was all Mary said in response.

Then suddenly, the lilting sounds of what sounded like some kind of string ensemble wafted from the library, echoing pleasantly throughout the hall.

Robert was momentarily stunned. "How on earth did your grandmother manage _that_ in two days?"

"Actually, that was cousin Isobel," remarked Mary, as they started to travel across the room. "She paid a visit to Matthew's former regiment, who'd hired them for the benefit concert. Given all he…went through…" Her voice grew softer – sounding almost another lifetime away, "…they were understandably quite accommodating."

He and Mary had reached the library, and he peered through the open doors at his remaining daughters processing into the same room where they'd played on the floor as children. Fair-haired Edith and dark-haired Sybil – those little girls now grown into such lovely women.

He could feel Mary's hand alight briefly on his arm, and his fingers closed around those of his eldest girl – gripping her hand as if for support. It was then that he noticed her ring.

"That's a lovely heirloom you've got there - I don't recognize it."

She was silent for a moment, before practically whispering, "It— it's not from our side of the family."

With a quiet "Oh," he gave her hand a final squeeze. "Always been his own man, God bless him," he murmured, in quiet admiration.

As he was wheeled around to the beginning of the makeshift aisle, he felt his daughter lean over by his ear and simply say, "Thank you, Papa."

Swallowing heavily, he sat up as straight as he could – determined to look at least somewhat dignified in this ridiculous contraption. There were several stifled gasps as he and Mary started down the aisle, but Robert told himself it was all due to how beautiful his daughter looked – especially if the subtle, sweet adoration written across Matthew's face was any indication.

Ironically, Robert's eyes fell upon his own desk – slightly hidden behind a tall arrangement of flowers – and he remembered Mary standing before him in this very room, looking sorry, but not that sad, about the untimely demise of their poor cousin Patrick more than seven years ago.

Robert bowed his head in remembrance…and a sad kind of gratitude. For however much a kind fellow Patrick had been, he was quite certain his cousin would've never been gazing at his daughter with such open affection as Matthew was at this very moment.

The chair came to a halt, and Robert reached for Mary's hand again – holding it tightly for one more second before he released her, gave her willingly to the only man in the world who loved her just as much as he did.

It was a brief ceremony – stripped down to the essential bits of the service. He glanced over at Cora, who was watching her little girl so intently, he doubted if she even noticed the tears painting her own cheeks. Robert remembered his wife as a bride – standing in the same position as her daughter, as they'd recited those same vows all those years ago – and he reached over and touched her hand. Their eyes locked, and somehow, he knew his dear Cora was sharing the same memory.

As he watched Matthew place the ring on Mary's finger, Robert's eyes then shifted to Sybil – her own gold band hidden beneath her gloves. He regretted that he did not get to see the moment when she'd turned from his little girl to a journalist's wife. He wondered if she was thinking of her husband – stuck in Ireland for his job, as Cora had mentioned. Robert wished he could've had one more chance to speak with Tom Branson, to let him know all was truly well, and he was glad his daughter was so cared for.

When the vicar made the pronouncement of Mary and Matthew's newly married status, Robert glanced at Edith. He pondered what man would look into her eyes one day, as she took him as her husband. He hoped whoever he was Edith would favor him with that lovely smile of hers. They all saw her smile so rarely, but Robert knew when she did, she was just as capable of lighting up a room as either of her two sisters.

He was brought back to the present as the vicar stepped back slightly – seeing Mary haltingly lean her forehead against Matthew's, her eyes squeezing shut – Matthew's hand coming up in a light caress of her cheek. Robert then saw his daughter's lips move, whispering something briefly to her new husband – and Matthew's eyes closed in kind, giving little doubt as to the words.

Then they turned, arm in hand and started back down the aisle. His attention was drawn away from the beaming pair with their shining eyes when Cora took his hand. "Oh, Robert," she murmured through her tears. "I still can't believe it…"

After a moment, she rose – taking hold of his chair, and they followed Edith and Sybil back up the aisle. As he surveyed the variety of family, guests and servants still chatting amongst themselves, he noted, with some amusement, his mother, flanked by both cousin Isobel and his sister, Rosamund. All three women ranged from slightly teary to actively trying to stifle her tears with a handkerchief.

Turning away from them, his attention was suddenly directed to a corner of the room near the entrance:

Mary and Matthew, their arms gingerly around each other, sharing the first kiss of their marriage.

In an effort to give them some privacy, Robert glanced back at his own wife. "Believe it, my dear," was all he said.

* * *

><p>It was getting late.<p>

One rather inconvenient part of this New Year's Eve wedding was that it made for a quite a long day – as after the wedding luncheon, most of the family was staying for the more formal dinner that evening.

Indeed, Robert felt as if he'd spoken to practically everyone he'd ever met – all coming over to him, making him feel a bit like a cornered animal unable to escape.

As a result, he felt rather more like an observer when compared to the rest of his family. Cora was the epitome of a perfect hostess – greeting each guest with expert warmth and politeness. It appeared Edith had been managing the servants – taking on her Mama's role in that regard so Cora could do more visiting. Sybil had been all smiles, but it was obvious the trip had taken quite a toll on her. He would speak to her alone before the night was through, he promised himself. Before the year was through.

Only once had he seen his own mother – who'd seated herself in a remote corner of the room, but seemed to make a special trip just to speak with him:

"Well, that was far better than your wedding, wouldn't you say?"

He couldn't help but smile at the familiar refrain he'd heard for more than 20 years. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment."

His mother leaned on her cane a moment before declaring, "Really, I don't know why we bother waiting months on end for these things. There's nothing about a wedding that can't be managed in just a few days…" He could see her eyes drifting to the happy pair currently accepting congratulations from his sister.

"Why, Mama – surely, you're not saying the old ways are outdated! Next you'll be talking of women being allowed to inherit…"

For a moment, his mother was silent. Then her expression shifted slightly – still staring at her granddaughter. "If they manage to have all girls…I'll push the bill through Parliament myself," she promised, with a steely look of determination.

Robert found himself momentarily lost in quiet contemplation. He'd never see his grandchildren, but they would have their great grandmother - as well as their grandmother, no doubt - as their champions. Two Dowager Countesses – fighting for the next generation of Crawley women. It was truly a comforting thought.

His mother then muttered some excuse about some dreadful relation that was coming this way, and excused herself. This was more the Mama he knew – equally hard and soft, and his lips turned upwards as he watched her leave.

Once she'd left, he noticed someone standing behind her – hanging back, waiting patiently. Robert looked up and his smile grew infinitely warmer.

"Have a seat, my boy." He gestured to the empty chair next to him, which Matthew seemed to gratefully accept. Only Matthew understood all too well the severity of being confined to this contraption, which was clearly evident in his expression.

For a moment, Matthew looked down at his hands, seemingly unable to speak. "Sir, I…" Then he raised his eyes with a new confidence. "I just wanted to say…thank you. For…well, for everything."

Robert smiled at his words, seizing upon their most obvious interpretation. "No need to thank me, Matthew – my daughter has always had a mind of her own. I may have liked you first, but she chose you – make no mistake about that."

Matthew bowed his head, a seemingly knowing, but grateful smile crossing his lips. Then he paused - glancing in the direction of Robert's mother. "I'm sorry that I never had the chance to meet cousin Violet's husband," he said, suddenly. "I'm sure he must've been a good man."

"He was," Robert replied.

"I can only imagine…" Matthew trailed off, now swallowing noticeably, "…how very difficult it was…to fill his shoes."

Nodding, Robert stared at Matthew, intently. "I didn't think I was ready," he confessed. "But he'd taught me all that he could. The rest I…simply had to learn for myself. It wasn't easy, but I managed. I think that's all any of us _can_ do."

"…Quite right." Matthew nodded in response – his eyes closing briefly then suddenly opening as all at once he stood up.

"I keep telling you, that's quite unnecessary." Mary commented – appearing dismissive, though Robert recognized the hint of warmth in her tone.

"Better get used to it, my dear," Matthew remarked, with what seemed to be teasing fondness. "We all have our parts to play." His hand alighted briefly on her back, before he appeared to remember he was in company and dropped it to his side.

The hint of an ironic smile hovered on Robert's lips. "Speaking of parts to play, what on earth are you two still doing _here_?" At the panicked, slightly embarrassed looks from the young pair, he quickly added, "Well, you've done nothing but visit! I believe it's high time you shared a dance."

The two exchanged a glance that seemed a mix of anticipation and anxiety, but it was Mary who broke the silence. "Not just yet." She then seated herself in the chair Matthew had vacated, smoothing out her skirts as she did so. With a brief nod, Matthew located a chair of his own and seated himself beside her.

Both of them were giving him such curious stares, he felt compelled to at least attempt to ease the tension. "Well, now…both of you? To what do I owe this honor?"

"Perhaps you should first listen to what we have to say," Mary cautioned, lightly.

He could see Matthew sneak a look at her, before clearing his throat. "We wanted to tell you that after today…we plan on making daily visits to the house."

Robert suddenly realized why they wished to apparently deprive themselves of any kind of honeymoon period, and began to shake his head in preemptive objection. "No…"

"Papa, please—" protested Mary.

He held up his hand, as if the gesture alone could communicate what meager authority he had left. "I'll not have the two of you starting off your marriage in such a way," he declared, almost sorrowfully. "Someone can send word when…"

Matthew spoke up: "Sir, with all due respect…God willing, Mary and I will have many more years to travel together."

"You must understand how important this is…to us both." Mary now reached for Matthew's hand and clasped it in her own, as if to indicate they were united in this decision.

Robert glanced back at them – both exuding that old Crawley stubbornness. It was the first thing he'd observed from their interactions all those years ago that made him think they might be well-suited for one another. Little did he realize that together, when working toward a common goal…they made quite the imposing team. The county would be in good hands, he mused.

Quietly, he gave in to a version of their demands: "…I will allow for _brief_ visits," he assented. "And I do mean brief."

With a nod, Matthew responded, "Of course," agreeing to the terms almost immediately.

Mary, however, didn't back down so easily: "We'll see."

Then her expression softened – as she rose from her seat and took Robert's hand. Leaning over, she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and whispered the same sweet words of affection he was sure he'd seen her impart to Matthew earlier.

"I love you, my dear Mary," he replied, squeezing her hand a final time before looking up at her husband. "And you, Matthew," he added – and Matthew dipped his head in humbled acknowledgment. Finally, he gazed at the two of them together and murmured, "Be well."

Then, before either could respond, he quickly added, "Now please, go share a dance – you just got married, for heaven's sake!"

Again, Robert saw them exchange those anxious, anticipatory glances. "I suppose we have waited long enough…" Mary stated, though her eyes were on Matthew as she spoke.

"Quite long enough," Matthew agreed, his hand once again resting lightly on her back. They turned and left the table in what seemed to be their own world – as happy a pair of newlyweds as Robert had ever seen.

As Robert watched them go, he suddenly felt another familiar hand on his shoulder, and he reached up to grasp his wife's fingers in his own. Together, they saw Matthew escort Mary to a quiet corner of the hall, where the two of them began to dance together.

Watching them filled him with a joy he could barely express – and he was once again overcome with an unutterable thankfulness for this day. Gazing up at Cora, he attempted to add to the day's accomplishments: "Would you care to accompany me for a walk on the grounds, my dearest one?"

Though he couldn't see it, he could sense her brow furrowing. "Outside?" she asked. "Robert, it's almost dark, and you're…hardly in a position to…"

He chuckled to himself for failing to guess that she'd not exactly be charmed by the idea of leaving her daughter's wedding, especially for what seemed such a silly reason. "Cora, let me put it another way – I am going to take a walk outside, and I would very much like you to join me."

There was silence for a moment…then she sighed. "Let me just speak to Edith, and I'll get Carson to fetch our coats."

Cora then began to push Robert's wheelchair across the hall, past his youngest daughter chatting animatedly with his younger sister, past his mother who was clearly trying to make his son-in-law's mother see reason about something or other, past his middle daughter who appeared to be giving his housekeeper some kind of order.

Indeed, it appeared his entire family was getting on just fine without him, and the thought gave Robert more peace than he'd had in a while.

He then glanced once more at his eldest daughter and his son-in-law. Mary's cheek was now practically touching Matthew's, and Matthew was holding Mary what would've been considered scandalously close were they not married. They appeared to merely be swaying– their feet occasionally lifting in place to mimic some kind of dance steps. Their eyes were shut, and they were both smiling.

The future Earl and Countess of Grantham, together and happy. At last, all was finally well.

Robert watched them until Cora had wheeled the chair out of the hall and to the door.

She stopped to allow Carson to help him on with his coat, but he shrugged off the man's attempts, as he shakily planted his feet on the ground.

"Robert…what…" Cora trailed off, sounding almost taken aback.

He waved off any assistance, grasping the arms of the chair and rising shakily. Putting one hand against the wall to steady himself, he climbed the stairs with trembling steps, reaching the doorway.

"I know that we'll need that…contraption for our walk, but…" he conceded, holding out his arm, "…might I escort you over the threshold of our home, Lady Grantham?"

She looked 20 years younger in that moment, her cheeks flushing slightly, her smile so vivid and bright, he wanted to store it in his memory forever. "Lord Grantham…it would be my pleasure," she replied, sounding slightly teary as she looped her arm delicately through his.

Suddenly, there was the sound of barking behind them, and he felt Isis at his heels – tail wagging. Always ready for a walk.

As Carson stood at the entrance, Robert stepped through the doors of his home with his wife - their dog happily running out ahead. The stirrings of celebration continued - gradually growing fainter, as the sun began to set on the last night of the decade.

The End.

* * *

><p><em>It's Cupid's Fears or Frostie Cares<em>

_that makes thy Sprits decay:_

_Or it's an Object of more worth_

_hath stoln my Heart away? _

_Or some desert makes thee neglect_

_her, so much once was thine._

_That thou canst never once reflect_

_on Old long syne_

_on Old long syne my Jo_

_on Old long syne;_

_That thou canst never once reflect_

_Old long syne._

-Old Long Syne, James Watson (1711)


End file.
